The Longest Road III: The Long Road Home
by Fiddler55
Summary: Steve and Mark cope with damage control following Steve's rescue. Again, M to be on the safe side.
1. Not So Fast

The same disclaimer as for Parts I and II applies. The characters of Mark Sloan, Steve Sloan, Amanda Bentley, Jesse Travis, Cheryl Banks, Randy Wolfe, Captain Newman and Ron Wagner belong to CBS and Viacom. Any other individuals are fictional and not intended to resemble any actual living person, although Dave Harbrook is a conglomeration of some of the more human attorneys I have encountered over the course of my lengthy legal career (yes! there really are some!), while Samuel Edding embodies some of the less attractive ones.

"You're going home," Mark Sloan repeated, holding his injured son's hand and helping Jesse Travis with the rifle wounds in Steve's right arm and shoulder. Around them was a chaotic assemblage of medical and law enforcement personnel; Mark could hear the hoarse voice of Dr. Morgan complaining, presumably to Sheriff Silver or Captain Newman, interspersed with frequent coughs as he tried to push additional furious expletives through his bruised throat.

Jesse glanced in that direction briefly, then returned his attention to Steve's arm. "Guess Steve had him pretty good there," he commented bitterly. His mouth tightened as he looked at his friend's gaunt face. "Can't say he didn't deserve it."

Mark raised his eyebrows at the uncharacteristic viciousness in Jesse's voice, but was hard put to disagree. "That chain was pretty heavy." He had picked it up briefly once they had convinced the sheriff to have Steve's restraints removed, before the annoyed lawman confiscated it. "Steve could have done major damage if he had chosen to do so." He glanced at his son's face in his turn, noting the signs of stress and injury, physical and psychological, and sighed, wondering how long and hard the road to recovery was likely to be.

The paramedics had arrived, and were being briefed by Jesse. Mark watched as they slid Steve onto a stretcher, setting up an IV, then took his son's hand once more, forcing himself to sound reassuring. "Don't worry, son. You're going to be all right. We're taking you to Community General. Everything's going to be fine."

He was interrupted by the sheriff, Captain Newman, who looked like he was on the verge of apoplexy, hard on his heels. "I'm sorry, folks, but he's going to have to go to Fairview Hospital up here. They've got a lockdown unit."

Mark stared at him in shock. "What difference does that make?"

Sheriff Silver ran a finger around his collar. "Your son's under arrest for attempted murder, aggravated assault and battery --"

"You've got to be kidding!" yelped Jesse. "After everything that bastard did to him --"

"I wish I were, son," the sheriff responded gravely. "I might be less inclined to charge him if that was the extent of it."

The extent of it? Mark caught the odd nuance in the sheriff's voice. "Extent of what?" he demanded, rising, starting to glower, glad Steve was safely unconscious.

Captain Newman spoke up before the situation started to get ugly. "Mark, listen. Something's happened. Until we can get all the facts, and clear Steve, I have to go along with George; it's his investigation."

Mark's ire rose. "Clear Steve? Jim, you or your friend had better start explaining what's going on, right now. My son is sick and hurt, and I intend to take him home, so --"

Newman held up a hand. "You can't, Mark. Listen to me. They found a nurse in Steve's room. Badly beaten, barely alive --"

This was too much. Mark's temper, so like his son's once sufficiently aggravated, exploded. "You cannot seriously expect me to believe my son would --"

The sheriff interrupted, holding up a large plastic bag. "We found these." It contained what looked like long gloves, which had once been white, but were now soaked with blood. "I understand these were his." He nodded towards the man on the stretcher.

Fury ignited in Mark's eyes, and Newman hurriedly stepped in front of him. "Mark. Listen. You can't do anything to change this right now. I promise we'll make sure there's a thorough investigation. Right now, Steve needs a hospital. From the looks of him, the closest one."

Mark glared at his son's commanding officer for another minute, hating his powerlessness, slowly coming to grips with the fact that he could do nothing to change the situation at present. Yet. "All right, Jim. I want it on the record that it's over my professional protests as well. And I swear to you that I intend to get to the bottom of this."


	2. Honesty Hurts

Steve was drifting peacefully, feeling no pain. That was strange, he thought detachedly, he didn't think there'd been enough methadone in his last dose to achieve this effect. He tried to lift his right hand, but his arm was too heavy. He swam a little closer to the surface, to realize there was an IV drip connected to his arm, and started to panic. Was Morgan dumping the stuff into him intravenously now? Straining, he slowly became aware of the familiar beeps and chirps of hospital machinery, sounds he had been around his entire life. Oddly reassured, he relaxed and slid back under again.

He roused a little later to increasing discomfort in his right arm and shoulder, becoming gradually more and more aware of the throbbing of his wounds as he crawled back to consciousness. A man sat dozing next to his bed; when he blinked to clear his vision, he recognized his father. He licked dry lips and tried to shape the word; it took him three tries before he succeeded in forcing the sound through his equally dry throat.

"Dad?"

Mark woke instantly at the soft call. "I'm here, son," he replied, a world of meaning in the simple words.

Steve tried again to lift his right hand, but it weighed too much. He needed to touch his father's arm, to reassure himself that the apparition was real. He'd just have to reach over with his left hand, he thought, and discovered his left arm wouldn't work properly either. Puzzled, he rolled his head towards the recalcitrant body part, and went still as the sight of the handcuffs securing his bandaged wrist to the bed rail registered. Panic flared in his eyes. "Dad --"

Heartsore, Mark reached for his son's right hand. "Steve, take it easy --"

Steve found his voice, which was still there, albeit strained. "Take it easy? Dad, what's going on? Why am I cuffed to the bed?" His tone had a slightly hysterical edge. "Where am I, anyway?" he demanded, glancing around wildly. "This isn't Community General."

"No, it isn't, son," Mark responded in what he hoped was a sufficiently soothing tone. "You lost a lot of blood, and Fairview was the closest hospital."

His bewildered son succeeded in connecting loss of blood with his aching shoulder, but -- "What's that got to do with lockdown, Dad?" he asked, still frantically. "I can see the cop sitting outside the door." Hadn't he been through enough? Starting to get truly upset, he yanked on the handcuffs hard enough to shake the bed, rattling the metal loudly.

"Steve, please, calm down. You're in no shape for this sort of thing." Mark automatically checked on the injured arm.

Panting, Steve forced his jangled nerves to settle down. Although he wasn't about to admit it aloud, the brief moment of violence had not helped his shoulder any. Payment for foolish melodramatics, he thought with wry detachment, and rolled his head back to meet his father's worried eyes. "Dad, if I promise to behave myself, will you please tell me what's happened?" he begged plaintively.

Stalling, Mark asked, "What do you remember last?"

Steve pondered briefly. "I remember -- I felt bullets slamming into my arm. And -- I think -- Jesse --" he trailed off uncertainly.

Mark experienced a brief pang that Steve didn't remember seeing him, then felt ashamed. His son had been badly hurt; that he even remembered Jesse's presence was amazing.

"And -- I thought I was dreaming -- but it was you, Dad, wasn't it?" Steve queried, words tumbling over themselves in a rush. "I did see you!" he announced with a small air of triumph; then his face crumpled into lines of distress. "Oh, God, Dad, you were there when I -- you saw --?"

Mark said gently, "We got there after you'd been shot. And I understand what you felt you had to do. You don't need to feel ashamed."

Steve closed his eyes for a moment, relieved that he wouldn't yet have to tell his father about the ice-self which had been in control at the time. He wasn't sure he was ready to let the man he loved and honored know that he was capable of such a thing. He opened his eyes and met his father's squarely. "Thanks, Dad. Not one of my better moments." He lay quietly for a moment, then the awkward left hand presented an unwelcome reminder. "Dad?" He tugged on the cuffs lightly. "This?"

Mark sighed. "Promise me you'll lie quietly and not jump around."

"I promise."

"And you'll take my word for it that Jim Newman is doing everything he can."

Alarm trickled into Steve's brain, but he willed himself to cooperate. "I promise."

"And I swear to you we will get to the bottom of it."

Steve couldn't take any more. "Dad! I promise! Tell me!"

Mark's face was grave. "You've been charged with attempted murder, ag assault and battery --"

Steve's voice was savagely incredulous. "On Morgan?" He moved his head restlessly. "Dad, no jury on earth would possibly --"

"That's not all, son."

Disbelief washed over Steve's face. "What else could there possibly be? He's after me for ruining his precious research study?"

"I wish," Mark said heavily. "Listen to me, Steve. They're making the same charges concerning one of the nurses."

His son looked at him blankly. "You've totally lost me now, Dad."

A new voice broke in as Captain Newman strode into the room. "A nurse by the name of Rachel Pauling."

Steve's face went white. "Rachel? What happened?" Then it sank in. "Wait a minute. You said I --" he stopped dead, staring at the other men in shock. Their expressions were grave, and totally unenlightening. "Dad, I really, really don't understand."

James Newman stared down at the man he privately considered the best cop under his command, one of the best on the entire force, looking for some indication of the monster he would have had to have been to have attacked Rachel Pauling so brutally. He saw none, and hoped he hadn't lost the ability to see. "Rachel Pauling," he stated, choosing his words carefully, "was found barely alive the same day you attempted your hostile takeover. She had been badly beaten. Her jaw and cheekbone were broken, as were several ribs, both wrists, her left knee and her collarbone. She also sustained internal injuries, including a damaged kidney and a ruptured spleen."

Steve closed his eyes. "Oh, God. Rachel." He opened them again. "But I still don't understand why I --"

"Steve," his father interrupted, hating to say the words, "she was found in your room." As his son stared at him in increasing horror, he added, "Her blood was all over your -- restraints." He paused, trying to get the ugly taste of the word out of his mouth, and reached for his son's hand.

Steve winced away from his father's touch. "I didn't touch her! That son of a bitch did it, did that to her!" He yanked savagely at the handcuffs, rapidly losing any willingness to be reasonable. "How can you let them do this to me, Dad?" he accused, tugging at them again and again until Newman reached down and stopped him, immobilizing his hand.

"Son --"

Steve ignored his father's attempts to calm him, still fighting the captain's grip. "She took care of me!" he raged, his voice rising. "She saved me from going totally out of my mind! How can you even tolerate such a ridiculous charge, let alone think I --"

"Lieutenant!" barked Newman, hoping to distract him enough to be able to regain some sense of composure. "That's enough!"

Taken by surprise, Steve reacted automatically to the order, and shut up instinctively, waiting.

Newman hooked a chair over with his foot and sat down heavily, not yet ready to let go of Steve's arm. "Listen, Steve. We don't put any credence in the reality of these charges, at least where you're concerned. But I know George Silver, and I can assure you he will not take kindly to interference with his investigation. He's a fair man, and a thorough one. He won't stop until he's sure of his results."

Mouth dry with apprehension, Steve muttered, "Somehow, I don't find that very reassuring."

Newman frowned. "Steve, you're going to have to trust me here. I can't help you except to assist in the investigation as much as George will let me. Although the evidence right now is mostly circumstantial, you know as well as I do that it's still dangerous in the absence of anything else. Until we can remove the cloud hanging over your head, you need to do as you're told and stay with the program."

Steve moved restlessly. His arm and shoulder were starting to really hurt, and he was rapidly becoming aware of a growing nausea suspiciously reminiscent of methadone withdrawal. "What about getting me out of here?" he asked with resignation.

Mark and Newman traded uncomfortable looks, which exchange was not lost on the man in the hospital bed. "Dad -- I want to go home."

His father sighed. "We don't think the judge is going to be likely to grant bail, son."

The strain of the last few minutes, on top of the last three months, came to a head. Enraged, Steve unwisely bolted upward, and as rapidly subsided while he waited for the fire in his arm to go out. "Why the hell not?" His eyes blazed blue fury.

Watching his son's struggle to control his rage and pain, Mark felt his heart ache. "Steve -- there's no good way to tell you this. Rachel Pauling almost died from her injuries. She's still not out of the woods. And -- if she survives, she's going to need extensive reconstructive surgery just to put her face back together again, not to mention any subsequent cosmetic procedures." He stopped, unable to bear the misery in his son's eyes.

"God help me," Steve whispered. "I did this to her."

Mark's head snapped up. "WHAT?"

Steve closed his eyes, trying to fight back the increasing nausea. "I -- she came to my room, told me that she had found out what Morgan was doing. She wanted to help me, -- dear God, I let her. She couldn't do anything to interfere with the drugs." He was still for a while. "Dad -- is there any water?"

Silently, his father poured him some water and helped him to sit up enough to sip it. After he had settled again, he continued, still somewhat hoarsely, "She wanted to help. I wasn't thinking straight, or I'd have discouraged her. I never thought she'd get hurt."

"Son," Mark said softly, "I understand that. Tell me what happened."

"I -- I asked her to call you, told her you'd know what to do, would take care of everything." The quiet voice had acquired a ragged edge. "You weren't there, but Jesse was, and you sent him up here. Then -- Dad, I don't know what happened then," he said despairingly. "The last time I saw her, she was sitting with me -- staying with me, helping me through the attacks --"

"Attacks?" his father asked.

Steve couldn't make himself meet those gentle eyes. "Cramps, nausea, body tremors -- methadone withdrawal." Before either of his listeners could say anything, he rushed on. "We were talking, oh, God, I started to tell her how I felt about her --" He didn't want to go there. Not yet. "I finally fell asleep, and she must have left before I woke up, because she wasn't there. That was the last time I saw her." His mouth twisted bitterly. "Bastard told me he'd reassigned her." Both hands clenched spasmodically as he remembered.

Newman gave him a long, searching look. "Steve, believe me. We will do everything possible to convince the judge. But don't get your hopes up too high. Ms. Pauling's in a bad way."

Steve looked up at him miserably. "May I see her?"

Newman glanced at Mark, who shrugged. "I'd have to cuff you to the wheelchair and escort you myself."

Steve winced, but nodded. "I understand. I want to see her."

He almost wished he hadn't. The nausea rumbling around in his belly threatened to come roiling upwards at the sight of the injured woman. She was sleeping, essentially comatose, tubes in her arms, tubes helping her breathe, shattered ribs and face bandaged heavily. He could only imagine the actual damage. "Oh, God," he managed. "Rachel, I'm so sorry." He started instinctively to reach for her hand, then pulled back when he realized what he was doing. With the possible exception of Morgan, he was the last person she was going to want to have anywhere near her. He swallowed. "Take me back to my room, please," he requested, unable to meet Newman's eyes.

Steve had hoped to face the intensifying symptoms alone, sure that his father and the captain would have found other things to do for a while. No such luck, he realized unhappily, as he was wheeled back into his room. He squirmed under his father's narrowed stare as Mark helped him back into bed and Newman refastened the handcuffs. Although the captain then left, Mark remained, still watching his son dispassionately. Finally, Steve couldn't bear both the sickness and his father's calm but silent observation. "What is it, Dad?" he asked reluctantly.

Mark contemplated his restive son a little longer. "Tell me about the 'attacks', Steve," he requested in a tone which brooked no argument, and Steve knew it.

He sighed. There was no easy way to do it. "Dad --" He stopped, then forced himself to continue. "Dad -- I'm addicted to methadone."

His father said nothing, waiting.

This was too damned hard. He said, as rapidly as he could manage, "Morgan was experimenting with methadone and PCP. I've had I don't know how much of both pumped into my system. I do know I've had withdrawal symptoms several times when Morgan withheld the meth, then he'd increase the dosage again." He took a deep breath and made himself say it. "I've got them now, Dad."

Mark stirred. "You're having them now?"

He nodded, a lump in his throat. "Yeah. Mostly nausea -- the cramps and other stuff usually start later. I thought I was going to toss my cookies when I -- when I saw Rachel." A pause. "It's getting worse." Another pause; then, hating himself, he added, "Dad, I -- I need some --" He stopped, unable to speak or look his father in the eyes, and closed his own, unable to bear the expression he knew was on his father's face.

A gentle hand on his cheek, brushing away the dampness of tears he hadn't realized had escaped. "Oh, my son," his father said, his voice full of sorrow and love, "what baggage have you decided to lug about now?"

His eyes stung, but he still didn't dare open them. "Dad --"

"Steve, look at me."

Like a child, he shook his head mutely. Mark refused to accept it. "Steven Sloan, I mean it. Open your eyes and look at me."

His name, spoken in that manner and tone, allowed for no insubordination. He obeyed reluctantly. His father was blurry until he blinked the moisture away. Slowly, he raised his eyes, deathly afraid of what he would see, until his father's face entered his line of sight, and nearly lost all control again at the love and pride showing there so clearly. "Dad --" he tried again, his voice cracking.

Mark put a quieting hand on his shoulder. "Son, I have always loved you. You have always, always, made me proud of you. I couldn't ask for a better gift than a son like you."

He couldn't take it. "Dad -- please, don't --"

"Shh. Listen to me. That's not going to change because of an unfortunate byproduct of your run-in with Wyler and Morgan. We'll deal with the addiction, each day as it comes. Just promise me you'll stick with whichever program you choose."

Steve's throat was tight. "I promise, Dad."

"Good. In the meantime," Mark added, shrewdly noting the tightening of his son's eyes which he suspected coincided with an attack, "we'll see about getting you something to deal with these symptoms long enough to let your shoulder heal and get you on your feet."

Although the thought was paramount in both minds, neither man mentioned the fact that, once he was on his feet, Steve would most likely be in jail.


	3. Still Hurting

Randy Wolfe stood by the bed of the man she thought she had married, watching him sleep. Despite the narcotic he was being given, both for the pain from his wounds and for the withdrawal symptoms, he didn't seem to be resting particularly comfortably. He muttered something incoherent, and she leaned over to catch it, but he had already subsided back into his restless slumber. A small sigh escaped her, and Mark looked up over his glasses from the reports he had been reviewing, which she had brought up with her for him.

"What is it, Randy?"

She sighed again and settled into the chair next to him. "I'm debating whether to wake him. David's going to be on his way up, and I don't know whether I should talk to Steve first."

Something was off, but he opted for the easier question first. "David -- is that another lawyer friend of yours?"

Randy nodded. "David Harbrook. He's willing to represent Steve. They've set the arraignment for tomorrow, assuming he's well enough."

Mark wondered briefly what the judge would consider well enough, and pushed the thought away. There were more important matters to resolve. "Randy, honey," he said, his voice full of concern, "why haven't you let Steve know you're here yet?"

She tried to give him a too-bright, too-innocent look, and failed miserably under his warm, worried gaze. She squirmed, much like his son did. "Now I understand how he feels when you do it to him," she complained.

"Randy." It was the same tone he had used on Steve, and it was no less compelling for her.

She let out a breath. "All right, all right," she said unwillingly. "I haven't told him because I -- I don't know how he'll feel. I'll have to tell him we're not really married." She paused, then said it. "By rights, he should want his mother's ring back."

"Honey --"

She shook her head. "I left him there, with those pills in his pocket, unable to run -- three months, and I couldn't find a single damned clue, and had to wait for some woman to call you, and look what's happened to him, and he'll think I didn't care, and --"

Even for Randy, she wasn't making much sense. Mark noted the strained nuance surrounding "some woman" and filed it away for examination later, then addressed the most urgent issue. "Randy, I know my son. He wouldn't have sent you off without him if he'd had any other viable alternative. And the only reason he would think you don't care is if he keeps waking and not seeing you here."

He could see she wasn't happy, but his lecture was interrupted by a moan from Steve. The emotional level in the room had filtered through to the restless patient, and subtly changed the layers of his dreaming. With a muffled yell, he bolted awake, eyes staring wide, only to be snapped brutally to reality by the cold metal on his left wrist. His father grabbed him and eased him back onto the bed gently, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "Easy, son. It was only a dream."

Steve had closed his eyes; Randy's presence had not yet registered on him. "Dad -- can I ask you something?"

Mark smiled down at his son. "Anything, son."

Steve's good hand clenched and relaxed again. Mark made a mental note to check the handcuffs and make sure they weren't too tight. "Dad -- would I be able to dream about something which really happened if I hadn't seen it happen?"

Mark reflected. "I don't see why not. Your brain would naturally fill in details you might have learned about elsewhere. Why?"

Steve didn't look particularly reassured by the answer. "I don't know, Dad. It was just the two of us, and it was so real -- it had to have been me, but I don't remember --"

Concerned with his son's coherence level and what he was trying to say, Mark checked Steve's eyes and the level of the IV drip. "I don't understand, son. 'Just the two of us' --?"

"No, Dad," Steve said impatiently. "Not you. Rachel. Just Rachel -- and me -- or at least, I was looking at her --" He stopped, momentarily confused, then shuddered as the memory of the dream hit him full force. "Dad -- her face practically exploded -- she had the kindest eyes --"

Now he was losing his tenuous grip on himself, and Mark needed to stop him before he blurted out anything else, until he could be sure Steve was properly awake, aware, and not still in the middle of a nightmare which might or might not have any basis in reality. He adjusted the drip and deliberately increased the narcotic. "It's okay, son," he soothed, stroking the agitated man's forehead. "We'll discuss it after you get some proper rest."

Mark looked up and surprised a very odd expression on Randy's face, of regret? he thought, intrigued in spite of himself. "Randy, what is really bothering you?" he asked bluntly, recalling as he did her odd emphasis on "some woman."

"He's in love with her," Randy said flatly. She misinterpreted Mark's look of comprehension as the puzzle piece fit as his confirmation of her fears. "He loves that nurse, the one who was hurt, and now he's carrying around this guilt for what happened."

While he couldn't argue with the last claim, he was reluctant to accept her statement entirely. "Randy, that's absurd. I'm sure he was fond of her, after all, she was probably the only bit of brightness in a three-month long nightmare; but that doesn't mean his feelings for you have changed."

"You don't know that," she charged.

"No, I don't," Mark said, exasperated. "The only person who does for sure is sleeping in that bed. And you need to let him know you're here the next time he wakes up. Preferably before your friend Harbrook arrives." He took her hand. "I have to run a couple of errands and get something to eat. Tell him I'll be back soon if he wakes. And talk to him." He gave her a hug, and abandoned her to her conflicted contemplation of his sleeping son.

She was forced to make a decision an hour or so later, when David Harbrook called to tell her he was about a half hour out. Naturally, Steve was sleeping peacefully. She hated to wake him, but Mark was right. It wouldn't be fair to Steve or David (or to her, she had to admit) to wait. She touched his hand gently. "Steve?"

He mumbled something inarticulate, but his eyelids fluttered. She scooped up her courage and leaned closer so he could hear her better. "Steve, it's Randy. Please wake up."

Her voice filtered down faintly to where he was drifting. He really didn't want to awaken, but she kept talking to him. Slowly making his way back to the real world, he strained to listen, fascinated, as she poured out her heart, although she didn't seem to be making much sense.

" -- And it's not even legal --"

He appreciated her candor, even if he didn't completely comprehend it, but now he was confused. He was obviously going to have to wake up properly just so he could understand what she was saying. He creaked one eye open to get his bearings.

Damn. She was standing on his left. He wanted to reach for her, but he had developed a positive loathing of the rattle of the metal bracelet. With an effort, he croaked, "Randy --"

She stared at him with an oddly panicked expression. "Steve! You're awake!"

Wasn't that what she wanted? he thought, disconcerted. He nodded, discovering his mouth was drier than he had expected. She interpreted his desire correctly and helped him manage some water, then sat down, fingers twisting nervously. He peered at her, puzzled. "Randy -- I realize I don't exactly have any free arms, but --"

"Oh!" She jumped up, flustered, and planted a quick kiss on his mouth, then sat down again, obviously ill at ease.

Something in his eyes altered as he noticed her discomfort. She must have changed her mind about him, he thought; it had been three very long months, after all. Even though he had half expected such a reaction, it hurt nonetheless. But that didn't make sense, if he believed what she had been saying when she had thought he was asleep. He couldn't leave it like this. "Randy --"

She took a deep breath. "Steve, please, don't say anything. I understand."

Wait a minute. She understood -- she understood what? He sure as hell didn't understand. He shook his head to clear it, experiencing that familiar feeling of befuddlement traditionally associated with Randy Wolfe. "Randy," he started again, fixing her with a stern look, "I think we're talking at cross purposes here. What exactly are you trying to tell me?" Doing his best to disregard the ugly reminder of his pending fate, he reached for her with his left hand.

Randy sighed. "Steve, didn't you hear what I said earlier?"

He shook his head. "Not very well. I was mostly asleep, and you were mostly inarticulate."

Ignoring the mild criticism, she said unhappily, "We're not legally married. Wyler had no business marrying us or any of those other people." She paused, reaching for her ring. "I guess I should give this back to you."

The fog started to lift a little. "Wait a minute," he objected, "I thought you wanted to marry me."

Frantic to end this conversation before it got into tricky waters, she babbled, "I did. I mean, I do. I mean, yes, but I don't know if you'll still want to because I left you there, with those pills, and that madman got hold of you, and it's been three months, and that nurse, and --"

His face shuttered suddenly. "What did you say?"

She sighed. "Oh, Steve. You want me to try to repeat that?"

"No." His voice was remote. "Just the last part."

The penny dropped. He obviously thought she believed -- oh. "Steve, that's not what I meant."

"What did you mean?"

"I meant," Randy said miserably, "I don't know if you still want to marry me because of how you feel about that nurse."

Startled, he missed the signs of impending danger. "How I -- feel? About Rachel?"

She looked him straight in the eyes. "Yes. What are your feelings for her?"

He felt oddly disoriented. Hadn't he had this conversation already? He chased the memory down, and realized with a shock that it had been with Rachel, the last time he saw her, the last time she stayed with him.

"Steve?" Randy asked, already regretting her bluntness.

He blinked, then swore when he instinctively tried to rub his eyes with his left hand. "Randy, for the love of God, why did you have to choose now to ask me a question like that?"

She stared at him, mouth open, totally, uncharacteristically, at a loss for words, and it became clear to him that, having helped open this particular can of worms, it was his responsibility to help close it as well. "Randy, the past three months I've held you close in my heart. At least, during all the times I could remember who I was." He shook his head impatiently at her soft exclamation of distress. "That last part doesn't matter now. I'd concentrate on your face, your hair, your voice, just to keep from going crazy."

"So what happened?" she asked cautiously.

He sighed. "I don't know. An excess of contra-indicated drugs. Not being able to remember my own name half the time, much less anyone dear to me. A woman who was almost killed because of me. I don't know."

She didn't want to ask, but knew she must. "Can you look me in the eyes, and tell me you don't have conflicting feelings about her -- or about me because of her?"

Damn. He didn't want to lie, couldn't, wouldn't lie to her. He didn't want to hurt her either. Miserably, he looked up to meet her troubled gaze, and whispered, "No. I can't. -- I'm sorry, sweetheart, but -- I can't." And, as she averted her eyes, blinking, he added, "Randy, listen to me. I'd have to answer the same way if she were asking me about you."

She stared at him in amazement. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

He wished he'd never let himself get dragged into this conversation. Not now. Maybe not ever. "Randy, darling, I do love you. If you'd never mentioned the questionable legality of our marriage, I'd never have --"

Now she was getting angry. She was willing to cut him a lot of slack under the circumstances, but his clumsy efforts were just making things worse. "You'd never have told me you were in love with another woman?"

Steve winced. "That's not what I was going to say."

Randy folded her arms and glared at him. "And what were you going to say?"

Exasperated beyond belief, he replied, "I was going to say I wouldn't have troubled you with my -- my feelings for Rachel, would have sorted them out properly by myself --"

Somehow, hearing the name was the final straw, and she lost her temper. "Oh, I see. Would you have decided to tell me about her after you'd safely decided you'd only been suffering from a drug-induced infatuation with the woman who held your hand, who put the needle in it when you asked for it?"

The brutal words slammed into him like a pile driver; she saw his body literally jerk with the force and shock of them, as the enormity of the accusation weighed down the already tense atmosphere in the room. Randy put her hand to her mouth, appalled. "Oh, Steve. I didn't really mean that. I'm so sorry."

There was ice in his chest and in his brain, reaching for his soul, as he fought an unexpected skirmish with the bitterness pounded into him over the last months. He won, but barely, and the cold still chilled his heart. He ran his tongue over chapped lips. "No, I'm sorry, Randy. It's not your fault."

They stared at each other, sharing the same indefinable misery. Finally, Randy stirred, slid Steve's mother's ring from her hand, and wrapped his fingers around it. "Here. Until we get ourselves sorted out, I think it would be best if you kept your mother's ring." Steve drew in a breath to speak, but she put her fingers to his lips. "Shh, dearest. I'm not going anywhere. But I don't want you to do anything because you feel obligated. Once you get this business here behind you, you can take as much time as you need to decide how you feel."

His voice was ragged. "I can't expect you to hang around waiting for me to get my act together."

She nodded briskly. "You're right. But I'll always let you know where I am, and you'll have an equal opportunity to woo me."

"But --"

He was interrupted by a knock on the door, then it opened and Mark stuck his head around it. "Randy, I found this gentleman wandering around -- says he's a friend of yours." His grin grew somewhat forced as the strained expressions on their faces registered.

Randy jumped up, immeasurably relieved by the interruption. "David -- I'm so glad to see you!"

A tall, pleasant-looking, dark-haired man wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a well-cut, conservative suit followed Mark in and gave Randy a hug. "You're looking well," he said, smiling at her fondly. His attention turned to the man in the bed, who was watching him rather coldly. "Lieutenant Sloan? Dave Harbrook. Randy's retained me to represent you. Okay if I call you Steve?"

Steve's expression was not exactly welcoming. "You'll excuse me if I don't get up," he said, not quite rudely. "And I can pay for my own defense."

Harbrook chose to ignore the challenge. "That's fine. Now, assuming you have no objections, I need for you to tell me everything that's happened, and then I can see if my thoughts on your defense are on the right track." He glanced around at his audience. "I stopped in at the judge's chambers this afternoon. Steve, unless you're incapable of even riding in a wheelchair, she's insisting on arraigning you tomorrow afternoon."

"Fine," Steve said shortly.

Harbrook gave him a measuring look, then turned to the others. "Would you mind if Steve and I talked privately for a few minutes?"

Sensitive to the considerable chill in the room, Mark considered this a prime idea. "Not at all," he said hastily, and dragged an uncharacteristically subdued Randy out, determining to have a few words with her as well.

Harbrook waited until the door had closed, then dropped into the visitor's chair on Steve's right. "Look, Steve. I'm not going to pull any punches here. This is serious. I'm not too thrilled about your prospects for bail, even, given what I've learned about this judge. She's a stickler, and she absolutely despises men who batter women."

Steve shot him an icy look. "Then she and I should get along just fine. I'm not a member of that fraternity." He closed his eyes. "You don't need me for anything else, I hope."

"Cut the crap, Sloan," Harbrook snapped. "Listen. I don't have to care if you want me to defend you or not. I was hired by your wife --"

Steve opened one eye. "She's not my wife."

Harbrook's own eyes glinted with annoyance -- or was it the glasses? "That's not what she said."

Steve shrugged his good shoulder. "I heard it from her. I thought I was married until then."

"But you're not?"

The tone of the conversation was starting to bother him. "What the hell do you care about it, anyway, Harbrook?"

The attorney stared at him. "She didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?" Steve asked indifferently.

Harbrook looked uncomfortable. "We -- we were going to get married ourselves a few years ago."

There was a queasy silence while both men digested the bizarre nature of their new common bond. Then Harbrook inquired delicately, "So are you going to marry her?"

Steve had to appreciate the irony. He was also tempted to tell Harbrook to go to hell, but, in all fairness, he couldn't bring himself to do something like that to Randy. "I'm not really sure what we're going to do at this point," he conceded. "What about you?"

The other man shrugged. "You're my client. If you tell me to back off, I probably will. If you don't -- well, to be honest with you -- she's the only woman I've ever truly loved."

Steve sighed. More complications, as if his life wasn't already too damned complicated. "I'd like to tell you to stay away from her, but I can't. But I will warn you that she doesn't want us to step out of each other's lives yet, and that we have agreed to table any decisions until after you get me cleared." Reluctantly, he added, "But if she decides in the meantime that she wants to see you -- I can't really stop her, can I?"

Harbrook's eyes were sympathetic. "I know what you mean. Her picture's in the dictionary next to the word juggernaut."

Steve couldn't stop the grin. "You too, huh?"

His lawyer was tactful enough to avoid the unfortunate logical progression of that type of thinking. He was certain the irony had already occurred to his client. He loosened his tie and uncapped his pen. "Okay, Steve. Give it to me from the top."


	4. The Price You Pay

There was a pause after Steve finally finished. It had taken longer, and been far harder, than he had expected. The knowledge that he was probably going to have to tell it again in court, at least once, possibly more, was not exactly pleasant. Harbrook looked a little ashen himself, although not quite as pale as his client. Wordlessly, he took the tumbler from Steve's unresisting hand, refilled it, made sure the straw was in properly, and replaced it in that same hand, waiting patiently while the other man gulped the cool water down. "Better?"

Steve nodded. "I suppose I need to work on getting through all that a little less incoherently."

Harbrook gave him that sympathetic look again. "Depends. At the risk of sounding like I want you to milk it, do you think you could?"

Steve grimaced. "Good question." He was silent for a while. "I wouldn't want to bet money on it," he concluded finally.

Harbrook exhaled mightily. "Well, then. At least it will work for claiming extenuating circumstances where Morgan's concerned."

There was a glaring omission in the statement, and Steve's temper, already highly sensitive to that particular issue, started to rise. "Listen, Harbrook, you'd better understand something right now. I'm only going to say it once. I did not lay a hand on Rachel Pauling."

He would have said more, but Harbrook held up a peremptory hand. "No, Steve, you need to understand. I'm not one of the people you have to convince. The circumstantial evidence is nasty, and we're going to need a very precise approach to deal with it. And I would appreciate it if you would call me Dave instead of growling my last name like a dyspeptic senior partner."

Steve stared at him, not sure whether to shake his hand or toss his butt out, as the entirety of the lawyer's short tirade sank in. He started to smile slowly. "I take it that means you believe me. Dave."

"Now that that's settled," the lawyer said drily, "let me explain what you're up against. As I said earlier, Judge Wharton has a reputation as a fair, if hard-nosed, jurist. However, she's not going to ignore normal bail request guidelines without a damned good reason, and a blue-eyed, innocent look and boyish grin aren't going to cut it. The D.A. is a hot dog and a grandstander, so you're looking at a potential double whammy. Then there are these."

He took several sheets of photograph laser color copies out of an envelope and laid them on the table arm across the bed. Steve's initially puzzled expression altered abruptly to one of shock as he recognized Rachel's face, or what he could see of it. The pictures apparently had been taken before she had been removed from his prior accommodations. His breath hissed out sharply as he absorbed the extent of the injuries, feeling the ever-present incipient nausea rear its ugly head. Unable to bear the sight any more, he closed his eyes. "Dave," he said raggedly, "please get those out of here."

He waited until he heard the sound of them being slid safely back into the envelope before he reopened his eyes. His breathing wasn't quite back to normal.

"If it's any comfort," Dave observed dispassionately, "they think the first blow put her out, and she was probably unconscious for the rest."

Steve apparently had found something absolutely fascinating on the opposite wall and was concentrating on it fiercely. "No, it's not," he said quietly.

Dave waited, giving him time to compose himself, then advised, "There's something else I need to ask you, and I need you to give me a straight answer. You touched on the subject before, but it's more relevant than you think."

Steve's remote gaze slid from the wall to his attorney's face. "Yes. I am."

Dave blinked. "What?"

Steve had returned to his contemplation of the wall. "You were going to ask if I'm a drug addict," he said in a disconcertingly calm voice. "The answer is yes. I'm addicted to methadone."

The lawyer's eyes involuntarily focused on the IV and hurriedly snapped away from it again. Steve noticed the movement; his own expression was not easily identifiable. It might have been classified as a wry smile if it had gotten anywhere near his eyes. "I'm not getting any right now. There's a shunt up there on the drip. Dad's been regulating the dosage. I'd like to start lengthening the intervals between doses, but he's been concerned about my shoulder lately." He smiled a slightly healthier smile. "You'd know if I was taking it. Can't put more than a few words together."

Dave rubbed his nose. "That may provide us with a possible solution." He rose. "I need to get your father in here so we can bounce it off of him."

Mark was only too relieved to be found. His attempted heart-to-heart with Randy had been highly unsatisfactory. Despite her obvious distress, she had flatly refused to respond to his gentle probing, and he knew no more than she had told him earlier, other than that there was an obvious strain in her relationship with his son. That said, he wasn't sure he was particularly comfortable discussing Steve's addiction with someone who technically was still an outsider, even if that person was his son's defense attorney. His uneasiness soon communicated itself to both of the other men; Steve found himself feeling profoundly grateful for his father's affections yet again, while Dave succeeded in obtaining a very clear idea of the strength of their bond.

After Mark had answered his questions about treatment of such conditions in general, Dave put down his pen and leaned back in his chair. "Okay, Mark, tell me this. If you were allowed to put Steve into treatment right away, say tomorrow, what would it entail -- dosages, length of time, conditions for behavior, that sort of thing?"

Mark gave him a quizzical look. "Am I right in guessing you're going to propose something like that as an alternative to jail without bond?" he asked shrewdly.

Steve broke into genuine laughter at Dave's look of consternation. "You're busted, Dave! Don't ask me how he does it; he just does it." He smiled affectionately at his father. "To everyone. All the time. Perfect record." And, in unison with his father, chanting what was obviously a well-established mantra, "Annoying as hell." Father and son both laughed, enjoying the family joke.

No wonder she fell in love with him, Dave mused, watching them. She had always been a sucker for a big, honest smile. With dimples yet. When Sloan smiled, really smiled, the bitter chill which otherwise lived in his eyes disappeared. He shook his head. Poor Randy. He came back from his odd train of thought on the receiving end of identical looks of inquiry. "Are you two comedians done?" he asked lightly. "Okay. Give me details, Mark."

Mark pondered. "Community General has two substance abuse treatment units. One essentially is a lock down facility. Coincidentally, the coordinators of each unit report to me."

Now Steve was the recipient of that long, calm stare. He tried not to squirm, feeling as he always did that his father could see right into his brain.

Mark tugged at his mustache. "At least one month, preferably two, due to the fact that we have to assess any possible complications due to the phencyclidine Steve was given. He reports to his counselor, the unit director, and to me, and Community General is his home away from home for the duration. Any outside visits must be approved and can only be made with an escort and a tracking bracelet." His disapproving glance fell on the handcuffs. "I hope that would be sufficient. I really don't sanction using this type of thing."

Dave reflected momentarily. "I think I can work with that." He rose. "Thanks, Mark. We may just have a shot at it." They shook hands.

A cold voice spoke from the vicinity of the bed. "Excuse me. Do I get a say in this, or are the two of you going to decide the rest of my future for me too?"

Mark opened his mouth to respond, but Dave stopped him. He didn't look quite so calm now. "Damn straight, Steve. For now, get used to it. It beats being given orders by a prison guard."

Steve's head snapped back as if he had been struck. His eyes blazed hoarfrost. "That's it, Harbrook. You're fired."

Dave gave him a contemptuous look. "No such luck, Sloan. I'm being paid by your wife." He pulled out a card case, extricated a card, and flipped it casually onto the bed. "I'll see you at the courthouse tomorrow at 2:30. If you elect to think with your brain as opposed to a certain other part of your anatomy, my cell phone number's on my card." He turned to leave.

"Dammit, wait --"

Dave turned back, waiting, savvy enough to keep his mouth shut. The burden was squarely on Steve's head, and he knew it. "Look, Dave," he finally said, "I apologize. I was out of line." Try as he might, he couldn't suppress the bitterness in his tone, but Harbrook was willing to skate him on it. His father, however, was not.

"Steve," Mark said with a touch of asperity, "We understand your hostility. But your attorney is not an appropriate target."

Steve grimaced. "I said I was sorry," he grumbled. "I would just appreciate it if the two of you would at least let me pretend I have some tiny degree of control over my life."

His lawyer shook his head. "Steve, I'm not trying to make this harder for you. But you'll manage a lot better if you don't try to think that way. You're just going to have to resign yourself to doing what I tell you with no arguments." He leaned forward slightly, as if to emphasize his point. "I can't promise absolutely that I will keep you out of jail. But I can guarandamntee you that you'll end up there if you don't trust me to keep you out."

He knew Dave was right, but he didn't have to like it. His father's expression, however, clearly said not to look in that direction if he was going to be uncooperative. He sighed. "All right. I guess I have to trust you. What do you want me to do?"

Dave relaxed. Sloan was convinced, now he could let up on him a little. "Get better." His client gave him a disbelieving look. "Really. I need to draft some pleadings and the conditional release proposal. You need to take it easy." He glanced at Mark. "I understand your other witnesses are on their way up --"

"Other witnesses?" Steve exclaimed, wondering just what of circus his hearing was going to become.

"Jesse and Amanda," his father amplified.

"What for?" He was feeling squeamish enough about the upcoming proceedings as it was.

"I think it would be best if Jesse supervises you in the program. That way they can't object that my involvement is too personal and not objective."

"Oh, like my best friend wouldn't be?" Steve asked pointedly.

His father frowned at him. "Quiet, Steve," he admonished. "You're not in charge here, remember? Anyway, Jesse will be able to testify concerning the details of the program, and --"

"And Amanda?" Steve inquired, trying not to sound too sarcastic.

"Actually," his father replied calmly, "Amanda was kind enough to go to the beach house and bring us some clothes." His son gave him a startled look. "I wasn't expecting a lengthy stay, and I would think you'd rather not appear in court wearing a hospital gown."

Steve looked at his attire ruefully. "Got a point, Dad. Okay, the three-ring circus can stay. But --" his smile was short-lived as he suddenly became very interested in something on the blanket.

Sensing that this was going to develop into one of those father-son moments which discouraged outside participation, Dave quickly made his goodbyes and left.

Mark turned his attention back to his son. "What's the matter, Steve?"

Steve was still concentrating on the intriguing distraction, whatever it was, on the blanket. "Dad -- I really don't know how to say this."

His father sat down and tried to look encouraging. "Try me," he said obligingly.

There was a silence. Steve got bored with his diversion and mashed at it with his finger, noticing idly that either his arm was starting to feel better, or there was some really good stuff in the IV, because he could move it without nearly as much discomfort now. He started doodling circles on the blanket.

"Steve?" Mark prompted.

He took a long, deep breath and let it out slowly. "Dad -- you know I love Jesse like a brother, and I adore Amanda."

"But?" Mark asked, starting to get a glimmer of where this was heading.

"But -- I can't -- I can only take so much sympathy, Dad," he said in a rush.

Mark gave him one of those infamous fatherly measuring looks. "That why you've been so ugly?"

Steve had the grace to look ashamed. "Yeah -- well, partly. Probably. And -- I don't particularly like the person I become then. But, Dad --" he stopped, doodling forgotten, hands clenching and unclenching with the strain.

Mark took pity on him. Plenty of time to address the ugliness issue. "You don't want to keep remembering, revisiting it, do you?"

How the hell did his father manage to do that? Steve wondered, not for the first time in his life, and probably not for the last. "Not any more than I can avoid it, no."

His father scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Steve -- I realize it's going to take time, but they're family."

Steve was wearing the deliberately shuttered look again. Mark was sorely tempted to shake him. "Okay, son. I wasn't planning to get into this now, but, while we're on the subject of less than desirable behavior, we may as well address it also."

His son continued to study the wall intently.

"Would you mind explaining your animosity towards Dave Harbrook?"

Steve turned his head and stared blankly at his father. "I said I was sorry."

"That's not what I meant," Mark snapped. "You've had a problem with him from the start, which has escalated as you went along. Why?"

"I didn't appreciate being left out of the loop, okay?"

His father stared at his obstreperous offspring. "I thought you got past that."

Steve shrugged, saying nothing. His father's stare became a disapproving frown. "Steve, if you have doubts about his ability to represent you --"

Steve shook his head. "No, Dad, nothing like that. I think he can defend me just fine."

"Then, my eldest and most annoying child," Mark said with exasperation, "would you mind sharing your concerns, whatever they may be?"

Steve was starting to redevelop a keen interest in the wall. "Didn't Randy say anything to you?" It was Mark's turn to stare blankly. "I thought she would give you all the gory details when you two disappeared."

Oops. His father had just acquired that "and another thing" look. Why couldn't he learn to keep his mouth shut? "That reminds me," Mark said, true to form.

Steve closed his eyes in resignation. "No."

Mark broke off in mid-inhalation. "What did you say?" he asked, fixing his son with a narrow stare.

Steve's nerves had tolerated about as much strain as possible for one day. "No, we're not married after all; no, I don't think she really wants to be, to me at any rate; no, I don't know how I feel about it; no, his qualifications notwithstanding, I don't like being indebted to the man who was once engaged to the woman I thought was my wife for anything, much less my freedom; and no, I really don't want to talk about it or anything to do with the last three months any more today." Throughout his speech, his face remained calm, his voice quiet, dispassionate even; only the whiteness of the skin stretched over the taut knuckles betrayed him.

His father noted the clenched fists, so at odds with the deliberately indifferent expression and careful wording. "You know, Steve," he remarked mildly, "you don't have to agree to go for treatment under these circumstances."

What the hell was his father talking about? Steve shook his head. "No, Dad, you don't understand. That I do want -- it's just that --" His hands opened, helpless, and he couldn't hide the wince of pain as his arm and shoulder let him know the medication was starting to wear off.

"Still bothering you, I would imagine," his father stated. "I think you'd best get some rest. You've got a busy day ahead of you tomorrow." He stood up and put his hand on his son's. "Listen to me, son. I hope I won't need to say this more than once to convince you. You have my complete, utter support, as well as Amanda, Jesse and Randy's, for whatever course you choose to resolve your addiction, short of encouraging or ignoring it. We will do everything and anything to assist Dave with this legal monstrosity. And I will give you a sympathetic ear and whatever words of wisdom I can summon to help you deal with any of the psychological and emotional repercussions from this entire affair. I think I can safely speak for the others as far as that goes too."

Steve started to speak, but his father pressed his hand gently, albeit firmly. "Hold on, son. I'm not finished. It's vital for you to understand what needs to be said." The concern in his eyes softened the words. "None of us can truly, totally understand the pain you have to resolve. We can only help you to the best of our abilities. If you need professional help, I'll refer you. But you need to remember that you are not living in an emotional vacuum, and that, much as you may want to avoid the sympathetic efforts of your family and friends, you really do need the security of our love and support to help repair the damage to your own emotional well-being. And," he added, "you may not think so today, but that really is a lot easier than trying to do it alone. I should know -- I tried that when your mother died. If I'd been thinking straight, I would have let you and Carol in, let us help each other through it, but I didn't, and I ended up hurting both of you." He stopped at Steve's stricken look, and waited, wondering if he had tried to push his injured son too hard.

Steve sagged back against the pillows, eyes closed, face muscles tight, saying nothing. Finally, he drew in a ragged breath. "Dad -- I'm -- I'm sorry. I really don't know what to say."

His father spoke up hastily. "It's all right, son--"

"No," Steve interrupted, in that same oddly distant tone as before, "it's not. You're absolutely right. I had no right to behave the way I did." The quiet voice had acquired a slight tremor. "But I don't know how -- Dad, there's something I have to tell you and maybe then it will make sense -- but I'm --" His studied calm was disintegrating rapidly.

"Steve," Mark interposed, "You've had enough for one day. This can wait until later."

"No, Dad, it can't. I -- just don't know how to tell you --"

Mark sat down again, hoping Steve hadn't noticed his weariness, keeping his hand on his son's. "Start wherever you need to. If it's disjointed, we'll figure it out."

Steve looked at him doubtfully. "Okay, Dad, I'll try." Slowly, hesitantly at first, then building up speed as the pain and misery of those last days at Morgan's clinic came rushing back, he awkwardly related to the man he had loved and respected his entire life how the repeated, consistent brutality had eaten away at him, bored through his sense of self and self-control until it had released an inner demon he had never expected to discover. "I thought I had beaten it, Dad. Forced it to-- to give me the strength to fight back, but I thought I had kept it from gaining the upper hand." There was a suspicious brightness in his eyes. "But I didn't. That was all that kept me going, especially after Rachel --"

"After Rachel what?" Mark asked, after too long a pause.

"After Rachel didn't come back," Steve said with difficulty. "Morgan took her away from me -- and I couldn't, I couldn't fight the drugs any more -- so I let the ice out, I didn't have any reason to stop it. So I let it out -- and now I can't make it go back, it's there in the back of my head all the time now. I feel like part of me is permanently frozen and I'll never be able to get warm again." His arm and shoulder were hurting like blazes now, but he would have passed out before admitting it; with some difficulty, he pulled his hand away from his father's and covered his eyes so he wouldn't have to look his father in the face. "And -- instead of accepting their love and concern, I keep trying to inflict that chill on the people I care about most -- oh, God, Dad, I'm so sorry, it's not exactly like you don't have enough to worry about right now --"

Heartsick, Mark leaned over and put his arms around his son as best as he could, given bandages, IVs and handcuffs, and hugged him hard. "It's going to be all right, son. I promise. We'll get you through this." And waited, his own eyes damp, as his son finally released the strangle hold he had been trying to keep on his emotions since his rescue and wept, choking, difficult tears, until he had no more energy to devote to them, finally lapsing into sleep, utterly exhausted. His father remained in his awkward position for a while, disconcertedly reminded of the small boy the man in his arms had once been, and stroked his son's hair. Strangely enough, he felt reassured by the episode. It was going to be a long, difficult path, but now he was sure his son would survive the journey.


	5. Judge's Chambers

Mark watched as Steve slowly buttoned the light blue shirt Amanda had brought, carefully avoiding moving his injured arm too quickly. The shirt was brand new; they had bought it shortly after Steve's car accident. He had never worn it. Now it hung on him with more than a little room to spare. His son sensed his father's disturbed reaction and glanced up, trying to smile. "Dad, don't worry. You know I like them loose."

"Not that much," his father retorted. "I think I'm going to have a word with the dietician at the hospital, and have Jesse schedule you regular workouts."

"A punching bag ought to do it," Steve remarked lightly. A sobering thought occurred to him. "Dad -- you talk as if it's a done deal." He started to pull on his pants.

Mark helped him to his feet, and winced as Steve cinched the belt at the tightest hole. He'd always been slim-hipped, but now he was obviously much too thin. Steve made a face at him. "Well?" he prompted.

His father took the tie out of his hand. "I'd hate to see how this would turn out with you trying to tie it one-handed." He looped it around Steve's neck and started working on it. "I'm operating on the premise that the judge will see the complete and utter logic of our request," he stated confidently, finishing the knot with a flourish. "Don't forget, Steve, you're not exactly going to have much more freedom of movement. And I can't guarantee the drug therapy is going to be particularly enjoyable."

"Beats jail," his son said grimly.

"Yes. And your record, not to mention what Morgan did, should speak in your favor. So that's how I intend to look at it. We'll convince her."

Steve winced into the jacket. "No, Dad, I can manage this. I think." His father, trying to suppress a certain understandable amusement, grabbed the recalcitrant sleeve and guided it onto his irritated son's arm.

Steve looked dubiously at his reflection. It was still strange not seeing shaggy hair and scruffy jaw. Sometimes that shocked him more than the gauntness of his face or body. His good hand unconsciously drifted up to touch his clean-shaven chin.

Mark misunderstood his distraction. "I'm definitely going to talk to the dietician. Get some flesh to go with the skin and bones," he added, only half joking.

Steve gave him an amused look. "That's not it, Dad. I just can't figure out why my head hasn't floated away after losing all that ballast of hair."

His father chuckled. "Rather reminded me of your college days."

There was a knock on the door, and the gang trooped in, including Dave, whom Mark had called the night before for a very long talk. Amanda's brow puckered slightly with distress when she saw how the navy suit hung on Steve's frame, but she carefully cleared her expression after getting Mark's signal. She gave Steve a hug, careful to avoid his hurt shoulder, then fussed with the jacket, buttoning a couple of the buttons and smoothing the fabric. "There. Trust you to just miss the best effect," she admonished, twinkling at him. Steve laughed and pulled her close with his good arm for another hug. "I know what you were thinking, Dr. Bentley," he whispered. "But I won't fuss. Thank you." He dropped a quick kiss on her forehead and let her go. "Jess, Dave. Where's Randy?"

"Right here," she replied, walking through the door. "I got stuck with chauffeur duty." She hugged him and gave him a cautious kiss, then moved aside very slightly.

He felt the too-familiar chill, and shoved it away hard. Not now. Not today. He had to stay calm, and respectful, and do as he was told.

Watching both of them attentively, Dave caught the slight hesitation and subsequent body language, and wondered again at the irony that had involved him in trying to keep the two of them accessible to each other. From the look Mark gave him, he suspected the doctor was thinking along similar lines. Oh, well. Steve and Randy were just going to have to mess up their relationship without his active assistance, although, he admitted to himself, he didn't think he would be able to exactly discourage Randy from coming back to him if that was what she wanted. He gave his client a searching look. "You okay, Steve?"

Steve nodded a little too quickly. "Yeah. I think."

"Just stay calm and let me do the talking unless she speaks to you directly," his lawyer advised. "You'll be all right."

Trying not to squirm under the stern gaze, Steve wasn't so sure. The Honorable Agnes Wharton was a handsome woman, probably in her mid-fifties. Silver-blond hair capped an arresting face with piercing grey-blue eyes, a strong nose, wide, mobile mouth, and a chin almost as pronounced and firm as his own. She didn't look exactly forbidding, but she had the same kind of penetrating stare which he had received from his father often enough to recognize it in others. She was definitely not going to allow any kind of nonsense in her courtroom. He thought, a little crazily, that his father would find her most attractive, and hastily reined in his undisciplined mental wandering.

She was discussing the conditional release proposal, and frowning. His heart performed a nasty little dip and backflip, then deposited itself firmly in his throat as he waited.

"Dr. Sloan, I will agree that the facility would have sufficient capability to ensure that your son would not be able to remove himself from it very easily. I also am willing to concede the necessity for him to wean himself from his addiction as much as possible to ensure a fair trial." She glanced at the documents before her. "Dr. Travis' credentials are more than satisfactory. However --"

Steve's heart hurtled higher, if that were possible. It felt like it was sitting on his tongue, waiting to leap out of his mouth.

"I am not willing to rule on this without first talking with your son." Before he was able to send the cardiac acrobat back where it belonged, she added, "In my chambers. Alone."

Dave stood up. "Your Honor, you know I have to object to the propriety of my client not having his attorney present."

She looked at him with a hint of scorn in those wintry eyes. "Maybe so. But this is my courtroom, Mr. Harbrook. I'm not planning to try and convict him today. I'm only going to decide where he's going to spend his time prior to trial, and I want to talk to him about it." The sharp eyes traveled to where Steve sat, waiting numbly, and softened slightly. "I believe he may not necessarily feel -- comfortable -- answering my questions in front of an audience, even an audience of one, and counsel at that. And I sincerely hope you are not implying that, if he starts to say anything which might possibly incriminate him, however remotely, I won't shut him down immediately?"

Dave flushed. "No, your Honor. I wasn't."

"Good." She aimed the gimlet stare at the prosecuting attorney. "Mr. Edding. You have the appearance of a man who wishes desperately to be heard."

The woman was frightening, Steve thought, watching in fascination. Attorney Edding looked less than thrilled at being singled out in such a peremptory fashion, but managed a reasonably decent recovery. "I would only remind the court that this man has been charged with several counts of violent crime, and --"

"The court," Judge Wharton interrupted icily, "is well aware of the charges. The court has also noted that the defendant, in addition to already having an immobilized arm, is wearing handcuffs. Besides," she added dryly, "I have every confidence in my bailiff's ability to handle the situation appropriately if it should become necessary for me to call for help." The bailiff, a large, handsome black man with impressive muscles, smiled serenely at the assemblage. No one decided to challenge the judge's claim.

She glanced at Steve, who quailed at the look despite his best intentions, hoping she couldn't see his anxiety. "Lt. Sloan? Would you care to join me in my chambers?"

Steve nervously followed the judge into a large, comfortably furnished office, trying not to jump at the quiet click of the door as the bailiff closed it. Painfully aware of the metal circling his wrists, he waited patiently as she removed her robe, revealing a well-cut grey suit, with a sigh. "Damn thing gets hot," she explained to her mesmerized audience. She sat down in one of the armchairs rather than behind the massive desk, and pointed a finger first at him, then at the other chair. "Sit. You look like a paralyzed moose. I'm not going to eat you alive."

He had to laugh. Standing up, she was probably no taller than his elbow, and the image was pretty funny. He eased carefully into the chair, trying to avoid jarring his arm, and gave her an inquiring look, hoping his apprehension was nowhere near as obvious as it felt.

Agnes Wharton tapped a finger slowly on the chair arm as she gazed thoughtfully at the man sitting tensely across from her. Thinner than his normal weight, obviously; handsome, probably quite charming when he was relaxed. She had caught a glimpse of it when he laughed. Yet the signs of strain were evident in the lines around his eyes and nose, the shadows under his eyes, and the stillness into which his face settled as his nervousness intensified, although he was managing reasonably successfully to hide it.

"Lt. Sloan," she said finally, "tell me yourself why I should commit you to your father's program pending trial instead of just denying you bail and tossing you into prison?" As he opened his mouth to answer, she added, "And we'll take the obvious line about the danger to police in jail as read, all right?"

He nodded, not sure he trusted himself to speak yet. She gave him a minute or two, then the finger's gentle tapping reminded him that he was supposed to start talking. "Your Honor," he said hesitantly, "I'm a cop. That's what I do. I'm also a drug addict. I need to overcome my addiction, and I know enough to know I can't do it without help."

"There are rehab programs in prison," she pointed out.

"Yes, there are," he agreed. "But my father is concerned about any residual effects from the phencyclidine I was given, and he would prefer to trust the Community General staff to deal with that." He swallowed. She wasn't probably going to like what he was going to say next, but he couldn't omit it. "With all due respect, I can't avoid being concerned about the danger of being in prison. I just spent three months locked up in hell because I was recognized as a police officer."

Her lips thinned. "I see. Any other reasons?"

His unhelpful stomach churned. This was not good. "I also -- my father thinks -- I'm not sure I can explain this very well, your Honor."

"Try," she suggested evenly.

Now he was really uncomfortable. "Dad thinks a safe, optimum dosage of methadone for me sufficient to suppress, or at least minimize, any withdrawal symptoms would be between 25 and 35 mg a day. He'll have a better idea, obviously, once I'm in rehab. Generally, prison rehab programs aren't that obliging. I would probably get 10 to 15 mg less." His throat felt like sand, and the water pitcher on the table was taunting him. "Your Honor, do you suppose I might --?" he gestured with his manacled hands at the water.

Judge Wharton looked at the pitcher, then the hands and the weary blue eyes of the man sitting before her, and decided she was probably safe from any attempted attack or escape. "Of course," she said, poured it and helped him to balance it while he sipped. "All right, Lieutenant," she remarked when he was ready to continue, "tell me why that should make a difference."

He looked more uncomfortable. "I -- I spent, I think, the last month of that trip to hell being given varying levels of methadone and/or PCP, and having them constantly withheld, for no rhyme or reason."

"You think?" she repeated. "Don't you know?"

He shook his head. "No. I pretty much lost track of time after the third or fourth drug trip, much less once they started the drug/no drug cycle. Someone had to tell me how long I'd been there."

Her eyes widened for a moment. "Go on."

He moved his neck as if it hurt. "Methadone withdrawal, for me at least, starts with nausea and stomach cramps. The cramps then spread throughout my entire body, and I can't stop shaking. It's like the most vicious case of flu I've ever had, except far worse, because the only way I can get the same relief I would get from flu medicine is to ingest, or inject, more methadone. It's a vicious circle."

He needed more water. She guessed his request before he spoke, and gave it to him. Mouth less dry, he continued. "If I don't get any methadone then, all of the symptoms intensify. It feels like my guts are determined to rip themselves out from the inside. It's impossible to find any kind of position that doesn't hurt." He paused. "I was gutshot in the line of duty a couple of years ago. This is much, much worse."

"And if you are given the drug?"

He made a noncommittal movement. "It's not as good as being clearheaded, but if I get it before things get really bad, then usually it more or less takes the edge off the world. I'm a little lightheaded, a little fuzzy, but I can function. If the symptoms are so bad that I need more, usually I have to have so much that everything's a blur, and I have no idea who, what or where I am." He took a chance and looked her straight in the eyes, tense blue staring into icy grey-blue. "I'm asking, no, begging you, your Honor, please don't make me live through that again. Especially with a virtual target on my back. I will swear on anything you ask that I will go along with whatever restrictions you impose on me, so long as you let me go into the Community General rehab program."

There was a long silence. He gave up trying to read her, and wondered briefly how the others were doing in the courtroom. Then the tapping finger started up again as the judge considered him. "What if I decided to allow it only as long as you remained handcuffed and/or under heavy guard at all times?"

His self-control wasn't up to staying on the same plane as this woman. She had to have seen him flinch at her words. "If that's the only way you'll let me go into rehab and stay out of prison, I guess I don't have much of a choice, do I?" he asked bitterly.

"Would you agree to those conditions?" she pressed, ignoring the bite in his tone.

Steve looked at her with a certain degree of desperation. Was this a trick question? "If that's the only way you'll do it, yes, ma'am. It's not exactly a new experience for me now." The chill was back in his eyes. "It's my father who has a really hard time with the idea. I'd simply like to spare him that if possible." Any warmth which might have been revealed in his face earlier had vanished. "He's been through enough because of what's happened to me without adding that to it."

She said nothing, merely contemplated him with an unreadable expression for an interminable amount of time. "All right, Lieutenant," she declared finally, "you can go back out into the courtroom. I want to think about this."

They were told to rise for her return about fifteen minutes later. Steve waited tensely, shoulders hunched. He had no clue one way or another as to how the judge was likely to rule, and consequently was having some difficulty remaining calm.

Judge Wharton surveyed the expectant group before her, and made it short and sweet. "Trial is set for six weeks out. I am approving the conditional release plan submitted by the defense in its entirety, except for one detail." She focused on a vastly relieved Steve. "Lt. Sloan, I'm afraid I can't justify the use of a tracking bracelet for any outside-unit travel. I'm going to have to insist on handcuffs." She paused, and glanced at Mark. "I'm sorry, Dr. Sloan. This is not an implication of any lack of trustworthiness on your son's part. Our conversation more than satisfied any questions I might have had about that. Unfortunately, the guidelines don't leave me enough leeway to rule otherwise."

The stern gaze swept back to Steve. "Lt. Sloan, I'm remanding you to the custody of the lockdown rehab unit at Community General. I am also advising you that one violation of any of the requirements made of you by that program will get you yanked out and deposited in jail so fast your head will spin." She glanced down at the papers before her. "The actual date will be on the trial order, but plan on the Monday morning for docket call. If for any reason you are not medically clear to go to trial, Lieutenant, I'd better have received a call from Mr. Harbrook before then. That's all." She stood up and swept out of the courtroom, leaving almost all of them, except for Mark, who had an "I knew it" look on his face, staring at the closed door in amazement.


	6. Rehab

Steve surveyed the room which was going to be more or less his world for the next six weeks with an odd combination of regret and relief. It was not large; there was room for a bed, a nightstand with a lamp and an alarm clock on it, a small dresser, a writing desk, two not especially comfortable looking chairs, and a mini-refrigerator, which some kind soul had already stocked with ice and juice. He noted, with additional relief, that the walls were not white, but rather a light blue-green, which gave the room a calming effect. An intercom was installed in one wall. The tiny attached bathroom had a shower stall barely large enough to accommodate his height, but he didn't care. Running water was a glorious luxury. Now all he had to do was learn to tolerate the sound of what seemed to be a normal door to a normal room locking from the outside. He was still reserving judgment on that one.

The door clicked open, and Mark and Jesse staggered in, toting a large picture of a seascape. "Thought this might help you settle in a bit," his father panted. Jesse nodded. "Swiped it from the third floor lounge." The thieves hung it over the dresser and stepped back to admire it, giggling like lunatics at their skill and effrontery.

It was a wonderful picture. Even though Steve suspected he might have days when it would be an uncomfortable reminder of his lack of freedom, on the whole, he couldn't fault their logic. "Thanks, Dad, Jess. This will help me stay motivated; in a few months, I'll be looking at that for real."

Jesse rubbed his hands together, doing his mad-scientist impression. "Okay, Steve, I need to do a complete start-of-program physical, with labs and blood work. Once the program coordinator --"

Mark rolled his eyes. Jesse scowled at him. "Once the program coordinator has reviewed them, we'll start your protocol."

Steve gave him a quizzical look. "Jess, speak English. You're talking like a doctor."

"I am a doctor. I speak English too," his friend retorted. "For those of us who are physician-impaired, I'll set up your meds schedule once Mark's looked at the results of your exam. Is that clear enough?"

Steve grinned at him. "As much as I'm likely to get from the likes of you, I suspect."

Jesse squared his shoulders and tried to achieve a look of importance. "Anyway. The notes from your stay at Fairview indicate you were getting meds twice daily. I may want to stick with that to start."

Steve nodded. "Jess, really, whatever you do is fine with me as long as you get me off this stuff without killing me in the process."

His best friend gave him a mischievous look. "You say that now. I've also set up an appointment for you with Rob Durward, one of the PTs. He's going to set up your exercise program."

Steve looked puzzled. "Jesse, don't get me wrong. I think that's a great idea. But that's about the fifth time either you or Dad have mentioned it -- I know I've lost weight, but is there something I should know that you're not telling me?"

His expression was calm, but the tone of voice was more anxious. Bewildered at first, Jesse made the connection. "Oh, no, Steve. Nothing like that. My concern is that any withdrawal symptoms you may experience could be exacerbated because you're -- well, you're thinner -- and it's harder for your body to fight that if you're underweight."

Steve looked distracted. "Maybe that was why the symptoms were getting worse," he commented thoughtfully, and swore. "Damn him! Morgan probably knew that, didn't he?"

"Most likely," his father remarked. "Not to pursue an unpleasant subject, Steve, but you need to give some thought to how you want to manage your anger. Do you want a psych referral?"

Steve debated for a moment, then shook his head. "Not yet, Dad. I need to see how much I can do myself, and what effect Jesse's drug therapy and Rob's program have. I promise I'll ask if I need it."

Mark nodded. "All right. In that case, I do need to catch up on some work. Jesse will give you the schedule for meals and any common activities in which he thinks you should participate." He hugged Steve. "I'll be by later to see how you're doing, son. But, if you need me, call."

His routine, Steve soon discovered, really was not too intolerable as long as one discounted the fact that his door didn't open from the inside. At least, he reflected that first day, being in a locked room wasn't something he hadn't experienced before, and this room was much more pleasant, and he didn't have to dread the visits from any medical personnel. And, while his periods of relative freedom were spent either in therapy sessions or at the communal meals, and always under supervision, he could be reassured by the fact that these people really were there to help him. He found himself deeply grateful for the unspoken emphasis on preservation of personal dignity, especially after the impersonal lockdown unit at Fairview and the studied brutality of his prior captivity.

That being said, that first day, he discovered just how accustomed he had become to solitude, and just how difficult it was to become used to being in the society of others again. Jesse was painstakingly thorough; Steve underwent tests he had forgotten existed. He gave so much blood for lab work that he started to wonder if he was going to run out. Finally, the vampire impersonating his best friend pronounced himself satisfied that he had exhausted all possible reasons for poking and prodding him. "Here." Jesse tossed a set of sweats at his victim. "Rob'll take you down to the dining room; then, after lunch, he'll go through your workout with you. I'll see you back here at 4:00 to go over your test results and determine your dosage."

Steve had then spent a few hours in the company of his physical therapist, as well as other patients undergoing similar regimens, to emerge virtually exhausted. Rob Durward and Jesse Travis could have been twins in their boundless energy and enthusiasm, although Rob was both considerably taller and wider. He endured a fairly demanding workout ("We'll add more for your arm once it's healed," Rob had advised), and duly reported back to Tyrant Travis for more medical punishment.

Jesse looked up from Steve's chart. "Sit down, Steve. I'll be right with you." He grinned at Rob. "Looks like you wore him out."

Durward laughed. "Nah. Any whining is strictly for show. He did pretty well, actually. Once he gets full use of that arm, I'm going to have to watch myself." He flipped a mock salute at his charge as he left. "See you tomorrow, Steve. Do that one set of exercises after you get up, before breakfast."

"So what's the bad news?" asked Steve, noticing his friend's faint frown.

"Well," Jesse replied, "I think we're going to have to start you on the high side of the range we discussed." He leaned back and stretched. "I'd like to go with 35 mg a day right now. You can either get four injections, one every six hours, or you can have it all at once in one handy-dandy little pill. Personally, I'd --"

"Once a day is fine," Steve interrupted. "I've had my fill of needles for a while." He shuddered involuntarily as an unbidden memory pushed its unwelcome way into his brain, of lunging at Morgan, yelling something, trying to reach the silver lure held so enticingly out of range. "Why so high, Jess?"

Jesse hesitated. "Steve -- your body chemistry is pretty screwed up. You're also anemic, still dehydrated, and semi-seriously malnourished. I'd like to get all that closer back into balance before we lower the dose." He scowled. "If what Rachel told me was accurate, and I don't see that it wouldn't have been, you were getting at least twice that much daily. When you were getting it, that is."

Steve had been temporarily distracted. "You talked to Rachel?" he asked, his voice overly casual.

Jesse hated to disillusion him. "That day I came to the clinic. She told me then."

"Oh," Steve said flatly.

"I'm sorry, Steve. Do you want me to keep tabs on how she's doing?" he asked.

His best friend nodded, not trusting his voice just then. Jesse decided they needed to get back to the subject at hand. "You said methadone makes you pretty dopey -- so I'm thinking after dinner might be best. That way, you've already started to relax before lights out."

"Lights out?" Steve asked, startled.

Jesse gave him a questioning look. "It's a lockdown unit, remember? Lights out at 10:30. Besides," he added wickedly, "you forget. You don't get to just lie around and loaf about here."

Steve looked around for something to throw, but nothing in close range was suitable. "I ought to get up and slap you upside the head," he growled, half-kidding.

Jesse smiled at him beatifically. "Yeah, but for once I have the upper hand. I can have Rob haul your sorry hide awake at four a.m. For pushups."

They both laughed, then Steve's grin faded. "Jesse," he said awkwardly, "in case I don't manage to say it properly --" He ignored his friend's attempt to change the subject. "Thanks. For doing this. For what you did before. For everything."

Jesse looked at him soberly. "You've always been there for me, Steve. No way I was going to turn my back on you. What are best friends for, after all?"

Still, Steve was exhausted, both physically and emotionally, by the time he was given his medication. He chose to turn in early, unused to so much interaction with other people, and desperately in need of a little quiet time to be alone. Perhaps it was the strain of what had come close to being almost excessive human contact. Perhaps it was the realization that he had a predictable routine, which was no longer subject to arbitrary interruptions by sadists attempting to cloak their amusements with a thin coating of respectability. In any event, he turned off the light, and lay staring into the night, somewhat disconcerted by the degree of the relief he felt at being alone in the quiet darkness. As he started to drift, cottoned by the initial soft affection of the methadone, there was a knock, and the door opened.

"Steve?" his father said softly.

"I'm awake, Dad."

Mark shut the door behind him carefully and walked over to sit down on the side of the bed, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. "How was your first day, son?"

"Okay, I guess," Steve answered drowsily. "I'm not sure which one's more of a slave driver, though, Rob or Jesse."

Mark chuckled. "How do you feel? Shoulder hurting?"

Steve shook his head slowly. "Doesn't hurt now particularly. It was sore earlier." The medication was starting to work its way through his body, and his voice thickened a little. "Too many people," he added suddenly and somewhat indistinctly.

"What?" his father asked, startled. "What about too many people?"

He was very relaxed now. It occurred to him that whatever had made him think of the apparent throng probably didn't matter. "'S all right, Dad. Quieter now."

The light dawned. "Oh, I see." Mark reached to stroke the hair back off of his son's forehead, mentally kicking himself. Of course. They should have expected this; after all, it wasn't an uncommon reaction to social overstimulation after long periods of solitary confinement or habits. "It won't be quite as bad tomorrow, son. You'll get used to being around people again."

He wasn't sure if Steve had heard him; his son's breathing had slowed and deepened into a steady, peaceful rhythm. On an impulse, he leaned over to kiss the sleeping man's forehead, as he had done so many times with the boy Steve had been, immeasurably grateful for the opportunity to do it now. "Good night, son."

Steve was barely aware of his father's voice. "Night, Dad." He turned, snuggling his cheek into the pillow with a small sigh, and slid all the way into a deep sleep.

And came awake abruptly, the yell of protest dying in his throat, as he realized where he was. Rachel's face was still there when he closed his eyes, so he forced them open again, staring blindly into the gloom, chest heaving as if he'd just staggered across the finish line. Slowly, as his frantic scanning of the murky outlines of the room furnishings convinced him he was alone, he began to muster some control and calm himself.

She wasn't there. But the dream had been agonizingly real, including the shock in those soft, kind eyes at the impact from the unidentifiable fist which had shattered the delicate bones. He shuddered, remembering. Surely, if he had somehow struck her while in the grip of a more violent hallucination, he would be able to remember it on some more conscious level? Obviously, he couldn't have done it, he told himself with as much firmness as he could manage. Then why were they the same vivid images every time? For now, he had no answer for that question.

He got out of bed, padded to the refrigerator, and dumped most of the orange juice into himself, realizing just how thirsty he was as he gulped it down. Jesse was right; he was dehydrated. He sat down to finish the juice, reluctant to go back to sleep, and stayed put, staring at nothing in particular, trying not to think.

He was awakened by a hand on his shoulder and Jesse's voice. "Steve. Wake up." Somewhere in the room, something was buzzing annoyingly. "Wake up," Jesse repeated, nudging him slightly.

Steve blinked groggily at the concerned face hanging in front of him. It seemed to be attached to the hand which was shaking him. "Stop it, Jess," he complained. Clarity was starting to inch into his sleep-dulled brain. "That's not the best way to rouse my stomach, under the circumstances."

Jesse retreated a step. "Sorry." A pause, and then he asked, "Want to tell me why you slept through the alarm -- and in the chair? Do I need to decrease your meds?"

Steve shook his head. "No, Jess, I don't think that was it." The fog was dissipating, and he was starting to think more clearly. "I woke up in the middle of the night, dying of thirst. Sat down to drink some juice. I guess I just fell asleep again before I could go back to bed."

"Uh-huh," Jesse replied absently. "Let me go ahead and take a look at you since I'm here." After a short examination, he pulled the other chair over and straddled it, facing his friend. "Steve, you want to tell me what really happened?"

Steve was dismayed to discover that clearer didn't necessarily mean faster. "No."

Jesse made an exasperated noise. "Forgetting something?" He caught the other man's gaze and held it until Steve reluctantly looked away first.

"Okay, Jess. You win. It's something I have to get used to, okay?"

Jesse shrugged. "Just be careful where you are and who's around when you try to cop an attitude. Remember what Judge Wharton said."

Steve looked horrified. "Jess, you wouldn't --"

"No, I wouldn't. But, remember, you're not the only participant in this program. Cutting you too much slack isn't fair to the others, and someone might manage to complain if they felt you were getting special consideration. I don't want to find myself in a position of having no choice," Jess declared passionately.

This was going to be a lot harder than he'd thought. He was definitely going to have to deal with his temper more constructively. "I'm sorry, Jess. I didn't realize."

Jesse flapped a hand. "It's all right. Just try to remember to think from now on." He folded his arms. "So tell me about the real reason you overslept."

"I really was thirsty," Steve said defensively. "But -- I was already awake." Why was this so damn hard? Haltingly, he added, "I had that dream again. About Rachel."

"The one you mentioned before? With the --"

"Beating," Steve finished grimly. "At least, the start of it. It always ends at the same place." Now he couldn't stop himself from blurting it all out. "Jesse, I don't understand. I couldn't have done it, hurt her. I -- never mind. I can't imagine doing that to her even under the influence of the worst stuff Morgan gave me. But then why is it so real, so clear -- and why can't I see the face of the owner of the fist if it's not mine?" He dropped his head into his hands, unwilling to see the expression in Jesse's eyes. "And she looks at me with those eyes -- God, Jess, her soul was in her eyes; the only light I really saw for three months was in those eyes -- and then I see the look in them as the hand connects --" It hurt to speak. He didn't want to talk any more.

Disturbed, Jess observed the bowed head in silence, wishing he could add some miracle drug to Steve's meds which would prevent the dream from returning. Finally, he reached over and touched his friend's good arm. The muscles were taut from tension. "Steve, you had a long, exhausting day yesterday. New environment, new routine, new meds, and a lot more people around than you've been accustomed to. I'm sure tonight, and the next nights, will be different." He stood up, tugging on the unresponsive arm. "Come on. We need to get you started. A regular routine is vital to recovery."

Steve inhaled deeply, let it out slowly, and stretched, rotating his neck and popping it. "Yeah." He got up slowly, waiting for the faint dizziness to pass. "You're probably right, Jess. There's always tomorrow."

Tomorrow came, repeatedly. Steve's arm and shoulder healed sufficiently for Rob to increase his exercises. He started eating more or less as he wished, and had regained some of the lost poundage. Pleased with his patient's progress over the first week, Jesse decreased his dosage, and was encouraged to decrease it further when Steve sailed through the transitional period with minimal adverse symptoms. Mark stopped in at least once a day, and, until the civil case against Wyler started to heat up, Randy had visited daily as well. She had subsequently cut back to less frequent visits, which actually eased the strain between the two somewhat, ironically improving the time they did spend together.

The only fly in the ointment was the dream. Despite all of Steve's efforts to forestall its return, it kept coming back. Almost every night, he was jolted awake by it, to sit trembling until his heart stopped racing, summoning every resource he could imagine to calm himself. He had become very skilled at rising in the morning as if nothing untoward had happened, and had fortuitously discovered that a little seltzer water under his eyes concealed the circles enough to avoid arousing suspicion. He was starting to wonder, however, if the dream was going to haunt him for the rest of his life.

He was enjoying an unusually quiet hour in the common room one afternoon, with only another patient and the customary security guard for company, when Jesse came looking for him. "Steve, I need to talk to you," he said, clearly disturbed.

Panic flickered briefly as Steve tried to remember if he had done anything dubious enough to have caused his friend's distress. He couldn't think of anything which qualified. Puzzled, he stood up and followed the young doctor to one of the offices in the unit. "What's wrong, Jess?" he asked nervously.

Jesse caught the anxiety in his friend's voice. "Steve, I'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to think you did anything."

Steve sagged with relief. "Good grief, Jess. Don't scare me like that."

"I said I was sorry." Jesse fiddled with the stuff on the desk until Steve was ready to whack him. "Jesse, please talk to me."

Jesse messed about with the desk pad, aligning it carefully. "I got a call from a doctor at Fairview Hospital."

Steve sat up with a jerk. "Rachel! What happened to her?"

"Whoa, Steve, hold on," Jesse exclaimed hurriedly. "She's okay -- I mean, nothing's happened." He scrutinized his best friend's face, trying to decide how to tell him. Straight out was probably best. "She's conscious. And asking for you."

His insides made a bold attempt to perform backflips and tie themselves into a gargantuan knot, as his initial excitement at the first part of Jesse's final sentence transformed itself swiftly into something else entirely. "She's what?"

Jesse spread his hands. "She wants to see you. I told her doctor that I'd need approval from Mark -- and you know the requirement for any out-of-facility visits."

Cuffed and guarded. Yeah, he remembered. Not that she hadn't seen him like that before basically -- "Jesse," he asked hesitantly, "did she say why she wanted to see me?"

Jesse shook his head. "Mark's supposed to be on his way down here. He was going to call and see what he could find out."

"I'm here," Mark declared as he came in and sat down. He looked tired, and Steve felt a pang of guilt at his part in causing his father's weariness, especially now that he was going to add to it.

"Dad -- please tell me what's going on," he pleaded.

His father took off his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and replaced the eyewear. "Apparently, Rachel's been asking for you since she woke up a couple of days ago. Her regular nurse, the one you saw, was out of town until this morning, and the relief nurse didn't make the connection. Anyway, her nurse today realized that she recognized your name, and they tracked me down, but I was in a meeting, so Jesse talked to her doctor. She wants to see you. She apparently hasn't said why." He glanced at his silent son, who seemed to be cast in stone. "Steve?"

Steve had been staring down at his hands, unable to speak, feeling oddly disconnected for the first time since starting his therapy. Now he looked up, eyes full of pain. "Dad -- what should I do?" he asked.

Mark frowned, somewhat at a loss. "What do you mean? I thought you would want to see her."

"I don't know," Steve said miserably. "I can't figure out why she'd want to see me."

His father looked even more perturbed. "If she's conscious, she could exonerate you."

"Or fry me," his son whispered.

Jesse, listening to the bewildering exchange, realized Steve had not told his father about his recurring dream. Come to think of it, Steve hadn't said a word about it to him for several days either. He suspected suddenly that the nightmare was making an extended appearance, and that his best friend/patient had not bothered to share that little detail with him. With only natural irritation, he said as much. "Still having that dream, Steve?"

He was rewarded with a simultaneous "What dream?" from Mark and a flash of anger in Steve's eyes. "Never mind," Steve said shortly.

Mark gave his obviously annoyed son a shrewd look. "Have you been having that dream about Rachel again?" he asked. "Why haven't you told us?"

Steve had done so well for so long. He had adapted to the enforced regimen, followed the rules, done as he was told, and held his temper when the rage threatened to boil over. He lost it now. "All right, then! I've had it every night, not a night's break, I wake up in the middle of the night and I can't breathe, can't see anything but her face -- and no matter what I do, how I try, it comes back. Every night. It comes back. And now I'm supposed to go up there and see her? What the hell do I say to her? Rachel, I'm so sorry I broke your face, I was tripping out, I didn't know? Or, Rachel, I'm sorry, it's my fault, you got hurt because of me, and Rachel, by the way, I lo--" He choked to a stop, appalled by what he had almost blurted out.

Jesse was staring at him, open-mouthed. He'd obviously blown it, had lost his place here, was heading to prison for sure. Right now, his soul in turmoil, he didn't care. He held his wrists out to his stunned friend. "Go ahead, Jess. Make the call. I tried. I really tried."

His best friend's confusion grew. "What are you talking about, Steve?"

Mark had had it. "Steve, that's enough. Sit down and settle down. We are not calling anyone -- at least because of you losing your temper just now." He made a visible effort to lessen the bite in his voice. "I just need to know whether you want to go see Rachel Pauling or not."

Steve hid his face in his hands, concentrating on making the viciousness which had boiled up go back to that darker recess in his mind. "I don't know," he mumbled finally. He scrubbed his hands across his eyes, then looked despairingly at his father. "Dad, please help me," he begged.

Mark flicked a glance at Jesse, who suddenly remembered an urgent errand and departed. Steve barely noticed. "Dad --"

"Steve, look at me."

He wasn't going to try to fight that battle again. He let his anguished eyes meet his father's worried ones.

"Steve," Mark said with infinite gentleness, "If you think you love her, you owe it to her to go up there and see her."

Steve sat silently, focusing on nothing.

"Son?"

Still no answer. Mark debated, then leaned forward tiredly and propped his elbows on the desk, chin on his hands, waiting for Steve to work it out. Finally, when he thought he was going to have to divine some way to prod his conflicted son, Steve stirred.

"Dad?"

"Yes, son."

Steve looked exhausted, the bruises under his eyes in stark contrast to his pallor. "Dad, I need to see her. Will you go with me?"

"Of course I will, son," his father replied, wishing not for the first time that he could wave a hand and make his son's cares disappear. There was another silence; then Steve mumbled something.

"What did you say?" Mark asked, detaching himself from unsettling thoughts.

Steve looked uncomfortable. "I don't suppose I'll be able to see her -- alone."

At least this time he could give his son a little good news. It wasn't much, but it was something. "Actually, Dave and I also spoke with Judge Wharton. Incredible woman," he remarked, momentarily diverted. "Under any other circumstances --"

Despite his chaotic mental state, Steve had to smile. "The same thing occurred to me."

Still distracted, his father misunderstood. "Son -- not to put too fine a point on it -- but don't you think you have enough woman trouble at the moment?"

Now he did laugh, genuinely. "Not for me, Dad," he clarified affectionately. "For you. Even while I stood there that day, quaking in my boots, I noticed a certain something which would appeal to you."

Mark grinned back at his son. "Trust you to notice something like that." He exhaled. "Maybe my irresistible charm worked somewhat. She was very impressed by your progress so far, and she's agreed to waiving the requirement for the guard -- totally -- as long as you understand that any --"

"Attempt to misbehave is going to rearrange my housing situation," his son finished drily. "I understand, Dad. I promise to behave myself."

His father cleared his throat, suddenly ill at ease. "However -- she reiterated that she wouldn't waive the other requirement."

Steve's face stilled, although he caught himself before the chill swept over him. "I understand, Dad," he repeated, trying to convince himself that he did. "I wouldn't have expected her to be that trusting. And, given a choice, I'd rather be without the audience."

A sudden thought occurred to Mark. "You will call for me, though, if Rachel is willing to give any kind of statement clearing you?"

Steve smiled at the eagerness in his father's voice. "You'd better believe it, Dad."


	7. Rachel

One the drive up the next day, Steve found himself wondering whether the expedition was wise after all. Even with his meds, he had been too keyed up to sleep, and the appearance of the dream, after he had finally dropped off, effectively put an end to any additional rest. He was drowsy now, but his nervousness had communicated itself to his stomach, and the queasiness was just substantial enough to keep him from getting too comfortable. He also had to admit, brave words of the day before aside, the handcuffs didn't help. The mere touch of the metal on his skin sent a compelling invitation to the unwelcome icy chill he had worked so hard to bury, not to mention to the incipient nausea. He stretched his neck, wishing he could find a position which would allow him to sleep, and sighed.

Mark glanced over at his son, trying to avoid the sight of the cuffed wrists. "We've got another hour yet. Why don't you try to rest? You don't look like you got much sleep last night."

"I didn't," Steve said shortly. "And I don't think I'm likely to be able to get any now, either. I don't feel real great, Dad."

Mark stole another quick look while trying to keep his eyes on the road. His son's face was an interesting shade of greenish-white. "I think I'd better pull over," he commented, and did so, just in time. Steve jerked the door open and flung himself out of the car. Mark got out more conventionally and hurried around to the passenger side, to find his son on his knees, bent almost double with the effort of losing the entire contents of his stomach. He held Steve's head until the spasms subsided, then helped him to sit against the car, waiting for his breathing to calm.

"Sure you want to go through with this, son?"

Indignation tried to rear its ugly head, but Steve didn't have enough energy to fuel it. "Not really, Dad. But we've driven this far, and I said I would come," he replied wearily. "And -- even with the uncertainty -- I need to see her again. I have to tell her."

Mark's eyebrows lifted, but he said nothing. Steve would find out soon enough how receptive Rachel was likely to be to whatever he had to say. He scrutinized his son's face, relieved to see some faint color seeping back into the still-thin cheeks. "Come on, son. We'd better get back on the road."

After a startled look at Steve's manacled wrists, the receptionist at Fairview paged Dr. Freeman, who appeared shortly thereafter. He led them to his office first, waving them into chairs. "I thought it might be best if I spoke with you first, prepare you a bit."

Prepare? Steve thought apprehensively. What could possibly be worse than what he'd seen before?

"We performed the first surgery last week --"

"Wait a minute," Steve interjected. "I thought she'd only just come out of the coma."

The doctor shook his head. "No, she did that earlier. Of course, she was still very groggy and in a lot of pain. It was virtually impossible for her to talk, and she really wasn't awake sufficiently to communicate coherently any other way." His eyes were kind. "There was no delay in finding and contacting you once we were able to understand her request."

"Thank you," Steve said, somewhat thickly.

"You're welcome," Dr. Freeman replied. "As I was saying, we've done the initial repair to her left cheekbone and jaw. She was incredibly lucky. It looks like any damage to her eye will be minimal. She's going to need to have regular screenings at closer intervals than normal, but she seems to have no diminishing of vision."

The nausea was threatening to return. Steve willed it away with an effort, concentrating on the doctor's words.

"We performed an arthroscopy on her knee. Her internal injuries have healed for the most part, although we're still keeping an eye on the damaged kidney. She's still having some discomfort from her collarbone, but that and her left wrist are coming along well."

Something was missing. Steve tried to mentally recreate that first ghastly description of the damage, when he had been chained to one of this same hospital's beds, listening in horror to Captain Newman's deliberate tones. "Wasn't there something else?" he asked hesitantly.

Dr. Freeman gave him a sharp look. "We're not sure she'll regain full use of her right hand. There was extensive nerve damage when her wrist was shattered. She's going to have to undergo a long regimen of therapy to have any chance of it healing properly."

He saw that same hand again, stroking his feverish forehead, as he battled the effects of methadone deprivation. Her skin had been blessedly cool, the graceful fingers infinitely soft and gentle. She -- he couldn't deal with this; he dropped his head into his awkward hands and fought desperately to regain his composure.

The doctor glanced at him with concern, then turned to Mark. "Is there something --?"

Mark shook his head. "Just give him a moment. This has hit him very hard."

Dr. Freeman rose and walked around his desk to put a comforting hand on Steve's shoulder. "Don't misunderstand me, Lt. Sloan. Ms. Pauling should be able to make a full recovery from the majority of her injuries. Our biggest concerns are, obviously, her wrist and the additional facial reconstructive surgeries she'll need --"

"Surgeries?" Steve questioned sharply, shocked at the plural.

Dr. Freeman was an old-fashioned doctor. If he had to deliver bad news, he was going to be as considerate as possible of his listener's feelings. "Yes. It's less stressful for the patient if we separate the repair and the cosmetic portions." He leaned back against his desk and regarded Steve with sympathetic eyes. "I understand this is difficult for you. But my primary concern is Rachel's recovery. And she's made it abundantly clear, very firmly, that she wanted us to find you, and she wants to see you. So, unless you sincerely believe you have some difficulty --"

"No," Steve interrupted in a bleak, quiet voice. "Not if that's what she wants. I owe her that much at least." He lifted his head and met the doctor's eyes squarely. "Would you take us to see her, please?"

Mark looked closely at his son's face as they walked down the hall. It wasn't always easy, but he had spent a lot of time observing him over the last weeks. The signs of strain were there, but so was the renewed clearness in Steve's eyes. Once more, he had struggled with the chilly bitterness inside him, and once more it appeared he had held his own. Mark let go of the breath he hadn't realized he had been holding with relief, once more feeling that ineffable sense of pride.

Dr. Freeman stopped outside a closed door. "I understand you asked to see her alone. I'm going to ask the nurse to step out, as long as you agree to call us if Rachel needs any attention."

Steve nodded, his throat tight. The doctor smiled at him reassuringly and stuck his head inside. A moment later, the nurse Steve remembered emerged, and gave him an encouraging nod. "She's waiting for you."

He started to move, then stopped. "Wait. I don't understand."

"Understand what, Steve?" his father asked.

"No offense, Dr. Freeman," Steve ventured cautiously, "but everyone here has been -- well, not to sound crass, but are you always so -- welcoming to accused felons in handcuffs?"

"Steve!" Mark exclaimed, shocked at his son's question. He would have said more, but Dr. Freeman shook his head. "No offense taken, Lieutenant. And, if it makes you feel any better, ordinarily we might not be."

Steve's eyes were still wary. "But --?"

The nurse smiled at him. Another woman with kind eyes. "I think you'll understand once you've talked to her." She gave him a small push. "Go on. Get in there."

At first, it seemed that the only change was that she was in a private room instead of a bed in ICU. She looked so small, so frail, in the midst of all of the tubes and bandages. Her eyes were closed, and for a craven moment he seriously considered edging backwards through the door before his presence registered, but then she stirred, and he knew he couldn't disappoint her. He moved over to the chair by her bed and perched on it cautiously, wondering how she was going to be able to communicate with him.

There was a beep, and he involuntarily glanced up at the monitors, only to gaze with astonishment at one of them. Intrigued, he read the words aloud. "With this, silly -- Rachel, is that you?" he asked, feeling slightly foolish.

Yes. I have a pad, like a ThinkPad, under my left hand. It's slow, but I can talk.

His gaze swiveled down from the monitor and found her eyes, open, aware, and smiling at him. His heart thudded into his throat, making it even more difficult to speak.

There was another beep, and her eyes were laughing now. My jaw's wired shut. What's your excuse?

The telling color washed up his neck; he was momentarily transported back to the clinic, guiltily enduring her mock-lecture for not holding still after fussing at her to shave his scruffy beard. "Rachel, quit picking on me," he complained automatically, and almost jumped when the beeps came faster. He didn't need to look at her or the screen to know she was gleefully enjoying his discomfiture. He looked down towards his feet to compose himself, and was immediately reminded of the hardware on his wrists which he didn't want her to see.

Another beep. Preoccupied with his need to hide his hands, he didn't look up until the machine beeped again, almost wistfully. Steve?

A wave of guilt washed over him. He was supposed to be talking to her. "I'm sorry, Rachel. This takes - a little getting used to." He shifted in the chair, trying to find a less uncomfortable position. "I'm not accustomed to talking to you with a more or less clear head," he commented ruefully.

Beep. Please try.

He supposed it was only fair that he should have to reveal what was in his heart without having any clear idea of what her feelings for him might be. At least, she hadn't had him thrown out yet. Maybe his faithless voice would cooperate. "What do you want to know?" Not yet, if the feeling that his vocal chords were being squeezed painfully was any indication.

Everything.

Doing his best to ignore the sounds of the machinery and the slight gasping of her breath, he told her, hesitantly at first, then with more fluency, what had happened to him during those final hours? days? he still didn't know -- at the clinic, his subsequent arrest, arraignment, and rehab arrangements, his voice deceptively quiet throughout the narrative. Somehow, he succeeded in omitting the details of the charges against him, and wound up his story with a certain amount of relief. "So, here I am."

Oddly, the beep sounded querulous. You left out a lot, she told him impatiently.

His startled glance flickered to her face, and his heart plummeted when he spotted the all-too-familiar sternness in her eyes. "What do you mean?" he faltered, stalling for time.

Do you always wear handcuffs to make hospital visits? I'm certainly not in danger.

He could have sworn the damn machine had burped sarcastically at him. He met her eyes again, this time with reluctance; it was clear that she wasn't going to let him off the hook. "All right, Rachel, you win," he conceded grimly. "They haven't just charged me with going after Morgan." No. He couldn't do it; obviously, she didn't know, and he was damned if he was going to be the one to tell her.

Her eyes were starting to well up with tears as she sensed his discomfort. Tell me, please, Steve.

Oh, God. What he would do to hear her say his name aloud instead of having to read it on the screen. "Rachel -- please, you have to understand, this is hard. Very hard."

The electronic tyrant sounded a little more sympathetic, but not much. I understand, Steve. I wouldn't ask you if I couldn't tell that you need to tell me. There was a pause; he didn't dare take his eyes off the words on the screen. And it's important to me to know how you feel.

He felt the heat rising on the back of his neck. Despite his resolve to focus only on the monitor, his treacherous gaze slid stubbornly downwards to her face. The warmth in her eyes wrapped itself around his heart, his soul, and tugged at them delicately but insistently. He couldn't breathe; he stood up abruptly and turned away from her, hands braced against the wall, head down, fighting for self-control. There was a long silence, finally ended by a rather plaintive beep. He knew he could no longer delay telling her, and turned back to her before he changed his mind.

"Rachel, I --" he broke off guiltily as he saw a tear follow one which had already trickled down her cheek. "Oh, Rachel, I'm sorry," he exclaimed, reaching to wipe them away.

A peremptory beep. TELL ME PLEASE, STEVE.

He inhaled deeply, then slowly let out his breath, trying to steady his nerves. "Okay, Rachel. I can't make this sound better. They've also charged me with the attack -- on you."

Horrified, Rachel made a ghastly noise of protest, fright, revulsion, and all hell broke loose as the machines all screamed with her attempt to absorb the shock. Before Steve could act, a cyclone whirled into him and slammed him into the wall; only his instinctive guarding kept his face from direct impact, although he felt his lip split as his mouth encountered the handcuffs. He had a vague sense of other bodies in the small room, someone bending urgently over the woman in the bed, but, when he tried to turn his head to see, his unknown assailant shoved him up hard against the wall again, and he subsided until he could determine what was happening more clearly.

The furor near the bed diminished, and Steve heard a staccato series of angry beeps. He used the distraction to wrench away from his captor's grip, to stand, shaking, staring at Dr. Freeman and the nurse. "You didn't tell her," he accused thickly, around the swelling of his mouth. "No wonder she was willing to see me -- she didn't know!" The chill in his chest was gathering itself gleefully, waiting for the right moment. "How could you possibly not tell her?" he demanded wrathfully.

The doctor rubbed his eyes. "Lt. Sloan," he said quietly, "we didn't tell her because she's been asking for you insistently ever since she could make herself understood."

The words flung themselves into Steve's soul like knives. He swung around violently and stood scowling at the wall, fists clenched, still trembling, the metallic taste of his own blood in his mouth.

"Steve." He hadn't noticed his father come in. "You're upsetting Ms. Pauling. She's asking for you."

He hadn't noticed the frantic beeping either. He flung himself back around, face muscles taut with the effort of controlling the anger which threatened to rampage throughout the room, take out his rage at the unfairness of it all on its inhabitants, not least the damnably uncomfortable chair. Mark gripped his son's arms tightly, willing calm into him. Strangely enough, it worked. Steve felt the tension in his body ease, and his breathing quieted. He forced himself to meet Dr. Freeman's critical gaze. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset Rachel."

The doctor nodded, but gave no indication of leaving. Steve tried again. "I promise I'll tell her what she needs to know. And I promise you won't need to come back in here."

Mark intervened. "Come on, Bill. He'll be all right now." He shepherded the small crowd out, not without fixing his son with a sharp glance, clearly expecting Steve not to shatter the fragile peace.

He stood, irresolute, searching for the right words. Words of apology. Words of explanation. Words of affection -- he shoved that last thought aside. Not until he had kept his promise. He settled once again by her bedside, wishing there was some way he could take her hand while he said his piece instead of settling for her fingertips.

"Rachel, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."

Her eyes were luminous with tears. He didn't wait for her awkward rendering of the question he knew was coming. "Rachel -- do you remember anything -- what's the last thing you remember?"

She remembered trying to comfort him that terrible night, holding him while he slept, and waking to the sound of her pager. She had a vague recollection of arguing with Morgan; then nothing until she awoke in the hospital. Once she had been able to comprehend why she was there, her anxiety for Steve's safety had escalated until she had browbeaten the hospital staff into finding him.

Steve dropped his forehead on his restrained wrists. "Damn."

A curious beep.

"I was hoping -- you could say for certain that it wasn't me."

Puzzled beeps. Why are you uncertain?

"Rachel," he said patiently, "what I told you before is true. I go to trial in two weeks for attempted murder, assault and battery, not just on Morgan, but on you." For all his earlier reluctance, now the words rushed out headlong. "They found you in my room. Along with those -- muffles" (God, even the thought of the word, much less the sound of it, nauseated him) "spattered liberally with blood. Yours." He winced. "And, Rachel -- I can't even say for certain that it's not true."

Beep. He forced himself to look. That's ridiculous. I know you couldn't possibly ever harm me.

His throat constricted. "Rachel, you can't be sure of that. Look what I tried to do to Morgan."

Beep. Do you feel the same way about me as you do about him?

The abyss yawned; those brilliant eyes drew him in, and he went willingly, relieved in an obscure way to have the decision taken out of his hands. "No," he whispered.

How do you feel about me?

He couldn't pull his eyes away from the depths of feeling in hers. "Like I'm drowning --" He came to a screeching halt and shook his head. "Rachel. I don't know that my judgment is particularly sound right now. I have conflicting feelings -- for you, for Randy -- and, if I end up going to jail, how I feel may be totally academic."

You're not serious -- about jail, that is. I refuse to allow them to convict you.

"Rachel, dearest, if you can't remember --"

What did you say? The beeps came so fast that they seemed to splatter.

He sank his face in his hands, wryly appreciating the irony; it had been easier to talk to her when he was a prisoner, ill and mostly incoherent. Now, with his mind all too clear, he could see the quagmire surrounding him, no obvious or unobstructed path through the emotional tangle to be seen. Yet -- much as he loved Randy, he had an instinctive feeling that she would never be wholly comfortable with the aspect of his personality he had discovered during his captivity; and he intuited equally strongly that Rachel's natural serenity would be able to absorb and temper it into something they could both endure. Whether he truly loved her or loved the nurturing she had given him was another question.

Rachel was starting to worry; he had been so still, his shoulders hunched slightly in a way she recognized only too well. Steve, TALK to me!

The beeping brought him back to himself, and he shivered, glancing first at the screen, and then flushing as he realized where his thoughts had taken him. Carefully, he slid his hands under her fingers once more. "Rachel, believe me. I would never hurt you willingly. And I keep thinking I would remember something if I had done it while -- while under the influence -- at least something more tangible than a dream --"

A dream?

Haltingly, he told her about the recurring nightmare, the vividness of it; his initial pleasure when her face appeared transformed into horror by what followed. How he was starting to fear that it was in fact his memory of the act itself.

She moved her head restlessly, and the beeping grew agitated. You listen to me, Steve Sloan. I know you can't have hit me. And I'll tell anyone and everyone if I must. There was another silence. Finally, noting the tension in his face, she sent, somewhat wistfully, You haven't asked me how I feel about it -- and about you.

An alarm went off in his head. Did he really want her to answer that question? He risked a glance at her eyes sideways through his lashes, only to tumble into the warm depths again. "Rachel," he managed, his throat getting tighter by the second, "I don't dare ask you a question like that."

She moved restlessly again, this time with irritation. He captured what he could of her fingertips. "Shh. Listen to me. I can't ask you because, no matter how much you and I and everyone else may try, I could still end up in prison for a long time. Or, if not that, permanently barred for ever working as a police officer again. Rachel, that's what I do. It's all I know to do. I dread the possibility of never being able to do it again." He grimaced. "I don't even know if I have a job waiting for me if we do win." He squeezed her fingers very lightly. "So, how can I ask you a question like that, no matter how desperately I want to know the answer?"

Steve --

"Please, Rachel. Let me finish before I lose my nerve again." He knew the chair couldn't possibly have become any more uncomfortable; he shifted a little, trying to accommodate muscles which were tired of the strain on his shoulders from the position forced by the handcuffs. "For the better part of three months, you were my shield against the hallucinations, the delusions, the pain, the whole damn nightmare. Especially towards the end, when Morgan started mixing the stuff -- the only reason I could scrabble onto any sense of a world that really existed, was still there, was you. After you -- went away, or so I thought then, that's what he told me, I almost lost what tenuous grip I had on reality whatsoever, if it hadn't been for --" He definitely didn't want to go there, and backtracked hurriedly.

"I remember coming out of it once -- I must have ended up on the floor, because it seemed like you were hovering over me, so high up -- and the light was behind you, and I couldn't tell if you looked like an angel or the angel looked like you." That same face was regarding him with the same expression he remembered. "That's when I fell in love with you." His mouth twisted. "My life was already a shambles; what right do I have to pull you into it?"

She waited, sensing he wasn't quite finished. He saw it in her eyes and threw up his hands. "You're not going to let me off easily, are you?"

Now her eyes were full of a terrible pity. No, Steve, I won't. I can't.

So he told her what had happened to him after she had been hurt, of the pain and fear which accompanied the subsequent drug trials, and his discovery, simultaneously appalling and exhilarating, of the frozen bitterness within him which paradoxically burned white-hot with rage. How he had crawled into that icy vengefulness so willingly, relishing it so completely. "I'd never known I was capable of that -- that I had it in me," he said ruefully. "Even when Dad was threatened last year, I kept control of myself at least, kept it together for him. But this -- Rachel, what worries me is that it felt so good, so incredibly satisfying, that I didn't want to let go of it." He had found something fascinating on his hands. "That's why I can't help wondering if I could have -- done this" (with a quick, guilty motion towards her) "during one of those times when I --"

BEEP! His head lifted in surprise, and he was positive he'd seen her eyes flash angrily. She was definitely irritated. Steve Sloan, I'm not going to tell you this again today. You did NOT do this.

He had to tell her the rest. "Rachel," he said quietly, evenly, "there's more." Her expression grew perplexed as she saw a stillness surround him which was slightly unsettling, and he glanced at her absently with eyes the blue of a north Atlantic storm ocean, containing no warmth whatsoever. Then, with a visible effort, his face changed and relaxed back into more familiar lines. When he turned back to her, she saw the eyes she knew, the shadows under them even more pronounced.

"Just one more complication," he said tiredly. His shoulders sagged with weariness, but he faced her squarely, mentally holding his breath. "It's still there. I can control it, with effort, but I can't beat it. I don't know that I will ever be able to get rid of it. Some days, I'm not sure I want to." He scrubbed his joined hands across his eyes and forehead, just now aware of the mother of all headaches. "You don't deserve that. Hell," he added savagely, "you don't deserve any of this." Just in time, he recognized the rage lurking eagerly, grabbed at it and shoved it back whence it came.

Steve. The beep sounded almost subdued. He wrenched his eyes away from her face to the monitor. I do have some responsibility. I should have stopped him long before.

He shook his head. "No," he said, with an air of finality. "How would you have known before -- before Morgan started enjoying himself too damn much? As far as you knew, I was just an ex-cop junkie." The bitterness reared its ugly head even as he fought to suppress it. "And that may not be so far off the mark now."

Steve. Look at me, please.

He didn't have the energy to refuse. His weary eyes focused on her face, surrendering to the light in her eyes. He didn't need any words on a screen to understand their promise.

The monitor indicating Rachel's vital signs at the nurses' station slowly transformed to a calm, steady rhythm; Mark noticed the change first. "Looks like she's been asleep for a while, Bill. I suppose I should roust Steve out of there and let you all get back to your routine. We've got a long drive back."

They opened the door to find Rachel was indeed resting comfortably. Sprawled half on the chair, half on the bed, head pillowed on his arms close enough to feel the brush of her fingertips on his hair, his son slept equally soundly.

Dusk was just starting to curl through the early evening sky when they reached Los Angeles. Mark glanced over at Steve, who had been staring pensively out of the window, lost in his own thoughts, for the better part of the last hour. "You holding up all right, son?" he asked.

Steve merely nodded and returned to his apparently intent observation of the world passing by outside. Mark allowed himself a small smile as he deliberately turned off I-5 to the southwest towards the coast. It would be interesting to see just how long it took for his son to actually notice the scenery rolling by them.

As it was, they had been on PCH for some time before Steve stirred from his abstraction in astonishment at the sight of waves breaking below. "Dad -- what's going on?"

His father's grin was mischievous. "I thought we'd play a little hooky."

"What?"

"You know, take the low road instead of the high road," his father said obtusely.

"Dad, speak English. Don't I have to be back at rehab?"

Mark looked even more smug, if that were humanly possible. "I have a little pull with the program coordinator." He stole a quick glance at his son, who merely looked more confused. "I know you like that picture, but I had a feeling you needed the real thing."

Steve hoped the conversation was not really as circuitous as it seemed, although he wasn't sure if it was actually heading anywhere. "Well, yes -- but what's that got to do with my rehab schedule?"

"Just a sec." Mark was concentrating on negotiating the turnoff. Apparently, the next minute or two required the same degree of concentration; his intrigued son finally admitted defeat and subsided, gazing at the approaching ocean with equal parts bewilderment and hunger. Mark finally pulled to a stop and surveyed the surrounding dunes happily. "Plenty of time before you need your meds," he stated with a certain degree of satisfaction. "Besides, I need to stretch."

Steve got out slowly, forbearing to point out that they would already have been at the hospital if they had gone that way, and followed his father's deliberately aimless route along the shoreline. They walked in comfortable silence for a few minutes; then Steve pulled himself away from the thoughts chasing themselves in circles. "Okay, Dad, let's have it."

"Have what?" his father inquired artlessly.

"Whatever you've been itching to say since we left Fresno," Steve clarified, hoping this wasn't going to become one of those types of conversations which required quick repartee and quicker thinking; his head still hurt.

Mark slanted a sideways look at his son. Fatigue had shadowed his eyes and cheeks, accenting the prominence of nose and jaw. The nap in the hospital hadn't been long enough. "Actually, son, I had the distinct impression there was something you wanted to tell me."

Steve stopped still in his tracks. "Dad, I'm exhausted. While this breath of fresh sea air is wonderful, and I definitely appreciate you giving me the chance to get it, I'm not up to any kind of mental or verbal exercises." He bestowed a look of affectionate exasperation upon his father. "Would you please just tell me what you want to know?" he asked.

Mark gave him a critical look, then relaxed. None of the tell-tale signs of pending rage were there; Steve really was just tired. "All right, son," he said softly. "Did Rachel give you any useful information?"

Steve made a curious sound which could only be described as a small, painful laugh. "I suppose in some ways." He kicked moodily at a piece of shell, watching the sand puff outwards from his shoe. "She doesn't remember it, Dad," he said flatly.

"The beating?"

He nodded. "The last thing she remembers before the hospital is a screaming match with Morgan. He threatened to report her alleged complicity to the authorities if she blew the whistle on him."

Mark looked at him soberly. "Complicity?" He waited, watching Steve fasten a look of utter concentration on two seagulls contesting possession of a bit of flotsam. "Son -- did she know what he was doing?"

Steve drove his foot into the sand, suddenly and viciously, startling the squabbling birds, who flapped away, commenting rudely on his character. "No, she didn't!" he snarled; then, slightly calmer, he added, "Not really. Morgan had created a false chart for me. She thought I really was an ex-cop with a severe drug habit. My behavior certainly supported that theory often enough." Tired of abusing the sand, he sank to his haunches against a dunelet, sliding down to sit fully, knees drawn up loosely, hands dangling over them. "She was starting to wonder, though; she thought his interest in some of the nastier combinations was a little -- unhealthy, and she was having more and more trouble convincing herself that she was imagining things, that the end result would be worth all the -- all the pain and misery I was going through." He turned his head to meet his father's eyes. "She's not responsible for anything, Dad, except for helping me. And that was really my fault."

Mark ignored the last bit of guilt for the time being. "All right, son. You know I'll support you fully on this." He deliberated briefly. "So what are you going to do about the memory problem?"

Steve shook his head. "I don't know, Dad. I don't know."

They sat for a while longer, each immersed in his own thoughts, watching the sun conclude its long, slow descent into the ocean, reds and golds washing purple as they met the deep blue of the Pacific. Steve wondered idly if, should he sit still long enough, he would be able to completely absorb the salty tang of the air, the alternating crashing and whispering of the waves, the occasional wild cry of a lone gull skimming over the surface of the water, to last him for the rest of his life. To know he might not have the opportunity for a fearsomely long time was a daunting prospect; yet, as he felt the sea's rhythms settle into his soul, balancing the white heat, he knew he would do everything in his power to be able to return.


	8. Fraying Edges

If he had been asked whether his client had a reasonable chance of fulfilling his desire, Dave Harbrook would have been hard put to be especially positive. He had listened to Steve's description of Rachel's recollection with growing concern; once the short, grim tale was told, he leaned back, fidgeting with his pen and looking disturbed.

"If she doesn't remember," he pointed out as diplomatically as possible, "I don't think she's going to be able to help you very much."

Steve looked mutinous. "You don't understand, Dave. She's determined to make herself heard. And she made me give her my word that we would call her to testify. Even if Edding does his damndest to try to discredit her, I'm not going to break my promise to her."

Harbrook folded his arms patiently. "Steve, listen. She's not an impartial witness. Once you take away any possible testimony based on actual recall, you have a woman who's been through a major trauma and who's obviously in love with --" He broke off hastily as Randy walked in.

Her appraising glance swept over their faces, both men attempting to look noncommittal, and both failing miserably. "Discussing the key witness?" she inquired acidly.

Dave and Steve exchanged uncomfortable looks, and the lawyer swiftly got to his feet. "We'll discuss this more tomorrow, Steve," he said hurriedly, and made his escape before the storm hit.

Steve eyed his visitor warily. After Dave's discouraging remarks, he wasn't sure he was particularly in the mood for excess drama. "What have you been up to?" he asked diffidently, hoping to deflect her from pursuing the previous topic of conversation.

His conversational gambit sank like a stone. Seating herself next to him, she put her hand on his, looked him straight in the eye, and declared, "Steve, once the trial's over and you've been exonerated, I think it would be best if we -- pursued other interests, so to speak."

His heart twisted, but he sat mutely, only too aware of the potential damage which could result from such a discussion. His distress must have communicated itself to her, however subtly; her expression softened slightly. "I'm sorry, Steve. I know you don't want to talk about it. But I don't think any good purpose would be served by postponing --"

"What's to postpone?" he asked bitterly, hurt more than he would have expected by her unilateral action. "You've already made the decision for both of us."

She tried to disregard the accusatory tone, and reached for his arm in a conciliatory fashion, but he pulled away, studiously avoiding her eyes. "Steve --"

He turned back to her, that alien trace of ice in the blue eyes. "Randy, don't. You're right. If it's over, it's over. At least this way you won't have to feel ashamed about breaking it to me after the guilty verdict comes in."

Randy flinched as the vicious words, spoken so coolly, hit home. "That's not true, Steve, and you know it!" Her temper was starting to rise to match the heat she could sense seething under his studied pretense of calm. "How can you sit there and even suggest that I'm running out on you --" Her voice trickled off as she recognized the unfortunate irony of her words; then her anger sparked once more. "I am not going to stop working to clear you, and to put Aubrey Wyler and Frank Morgan where they belong, just because --"

"Stop it, Randy." His tone held that steel edge she had heard that day which now seemed like years ago. "You've done the damage. Quit jerking the knife around in the wound. Can we drop this mostly one-sided conversation before someone really gets hurt?"

A little voice was telling her to agree, that their tempers were too close to flash point to continue. She chose to ignore it. "What makes you think that hasn't already happened?"

It was his turn to recoil from the verbal assault, and his nerves, still frayed from the Fresno trip and his recent consultation with his lawyer, weren't equal to the task of maintaining the brittle calm. "I don't suppose you'd care to elaborate," he remarked coldly.

"I wasn't the one who fell in love with someone else while my spouse was out of their mind looking for me, wondering if I was dead," she retorted devastatingly. There were tears in her eyes. "You made me leave you. I didn't want to leave you. I told you I didn't want to leave you. Then you disappeared, after you promised you'd be waiting --"

He realized that she was always particularly incoherent when she was upset, but this was patently unfair. "I tried to get out of there, dammit, Randy, I didn't exactly go looking for that Solario woman and invite her to stick a gun in my back and a needle in my arm!"

She wasn't inclined to be rational about it. "You disappeared. I thought I was going to go out of my mind, not knowing if you were still alive or not -- and then, after I found out our marriage wasn't legal in the first place, after turning myself into a closet caffeine fiend insomniac, staying up half the night working on the lawsuit, you finally turn up, no thanks to any efforts of mine, and you're in love with another woman! Is that sufficiently elaborate for you?" she demanded furiously.

He was still stung by the insinuation that he should somehow have escaped. "Didn't you forget something?" he asked, his words virtually encased in ice.

"Like what?" she snapped, glaring at him with luminous eyes.

The suspicious hazel brightness hit him like a sledgehammer, and he abruptly lost any stomach for continuing the fight. The white heat protested, but he dumped the mental equivalent of a load of sludge on it and steadfastly pushed it away. "Never mind. I was out of line, Randy. You're right; it's my fault. I'm sorry."

She wasn't convinced, nor was she feeling as non-combative. "No, Steve. I want to know what you meant."

He started to tell her to drop it, to let it, let him be, until he sneaked another look at her face. The tears made him feel even more wretched. He thought, savagely, that all it seemed he could do lately was make women cry. "Randy, damn it, please. I'm sorry. Please, Randy, stop crying." He watched miserably as she made an ineffective attempt to dry her eyes with her fingers; somehow, she was in his arms, and he was stroking her hair. "Shh. It's going to turn out all right. Please, sweetheart, stop crying."

Eventually, she calmed, and relaxed into his shoulder, listening to the rhythmic thudding of his heart. She didn't want to disturb the fragile peace, but he had asked a legitimate question. She owed him an answer. "Steve, I --"

His hand froze, then resumed its soothing motion. "Forget it, Randy. I had no right to ask."

"Yes, you did. I'm sorry for what I said." She extricated herself gently, so as not to upset him. "I suppose I was trying to blame you so I wouldn't feel so guilty --"

"About Dave," he finished quietly. "Randy, listen to me." He took her small hands in his larger ones. "I understand. I know how he feels about you -- much as I do, but more clearly. And, given my -- uncertain future and major psychological -- problem -- which I've discovered lately, I think you two are much better suited, and you'll be much happier. I know he'll take good care of you." She was starting to tear up again. "Randy. Would you please stop crying? I pour out my heart to you, give you my blessing, and this is what you do to me?" Somehow, he mustered up a real smile for her, then kissed her wet eyelids, her nose, and her mouth, one last time. He held her close, inhaled the soft hints of jasmine in her perfume, then let her go and stood up, somewhat shakily. "Randy, I hate to do this, but Rob will be here in a few minutes. Do you need anything?"

She shook her head, unable to speak, and rose also, still swiping at her wet eyes with her hands. Wordlessly, she touched a gentle finger to his cheek and then to his lips, and left, still without a word, leaving him to sink back into his chair, staring at nothing in particular.

Holding a bottle of juice in one hand and his pill in the other, Steve stood before the seascape in his room, as if looking to find some guidance in the painted waves. While the picture usually at least had a soothing effect, tonight it held no specific answers. He switched his attention to the tablet in his hand. It promised sleep at least, although not necessarily for the entire night; but he had felt foggy all morning, and he wasn't sure his dullness hadn't been a precipitating factor in the strains of the afternoon. On the other hand, Jesse might not be pleased if he arbitrarily accelerated the next phase of his recovery. Yet, he thought with some resentment, the sooner he was clear of the drug, the better; at least he might be able to think clearly enough to find a way to save himself. The pill hand clenched briefly on that thought; by all rights, Morgan and Wyler should be the ones facing criminal charges. He needed to pursue that with Dave, he mused, and came to a sudden decision. He walked over to the wastebasket and started to drop the tablet, when, for some reason he couldn't explain, he drew his hand back, weighing the pill, then deposited it in the nightstand drawer.

Paradoxically, he slept no worse that night than he usually did. Once again, he woke following the recurring dream of Rachel, to eventually fall back to sleep, to slip into a long, complicated dream; the following morning, all he could remember of it was Randy crying. However, he rose feeling vaguely troubled, sufficiently distracted that he neglected his morning seltzer trick. He had also totally forgotten the pill in the drawer.

After intercepting a third critical look from Jesse during his morning check-in, Steve grew restless. "What is it, Jess?" he asked diffidently, not certain he wanted to receive an answer.

Jesse treated him to another sharp look. "Sleep all right last night, Steve?"

Steve shrugged. "About the same as usual," he said noncommittally. "I dream, I wake up, I go back to sleep. Why?"

Jesse tapped one knee, then the other, checking his reflexes. "Some serious bags under your eyes," he commented. "And -- I can't quite put my finger on it -- something's not quite right."

Steve shook his head. "Jess, I'm about as fine as I'm going to be right now. I'm just a little on edge. I don't have much longer before my -- trial." The word tasted like sand in his mouth, and for a minute he felt a trace of guilt for his deliberate attempt to sidetrack his friend in such a shabby fashion. It worked, however; Jesse dropped the subject altogether and finished his exam, sending Steve on his daily routine, which was more or less normal until Dave Harbrook arrived.

"There's something I want to know before we get started," Steve announced as they went into one of the consultation rooms. Dave felt his neck muscles tense as he waited for his client to make some accusation concerning Randy. He was disappointed. "Why haven't Morgan and Wyler been charged yet, with kidnapping at least?" Steve demanded, starting to pace.

Dave blinked at him in surprise. "Steve, we've had this conversation. Nothing's going to happen until Edding is finished with you. Even though prosecuting kidnapping charges would come under the FBI's jurisdiction rather than the local authorities, the Feds aren't going to interfere just yet. They want to ensure their own case against Wyler and his organization is air-tight, and not necessarily target the alleged victim in an ongoing case until they can be sure that won't compromise their own investigation. And Edding has made it clear that he will actively oppose any investigation, much less authorize one, into any charges against our boys until you're done."

Steve stopped circling for a minute. "You know, it occurred to me at the time, but I was so damned scared I forgot all about it. Edding seems a little too enthusiastic to suit me. Do you suppose he has any personal interest in getting me out of the way? After all, Wyler's influence was pretty widespread."

Dave looked thoughtful. "You may have something there. I could see arguing potential tainting of evidence in support of postponing the investigation, but Edding has been pretty rabid about getting his way." He made a note. "Your partner is liaising with the FBI, isn't she -- Ms. Banks, isn't it?"

Steve nodded. "Cheryl Banks." He smiled wistfully. "Best partner I've ever had. Tell her I miss her, would you?"

"Of course, Steve." Dave watched with concern as his client continued to prowl around the room. "Steve, relax. In the meantime, I'm taking Morgan's deposition the day after tomorrow. I intend to get something out of him one way or another to impeach him at trial." He popped stiff neck muscles. "Sure wish they'd find Wyler. I'd like to slap him with a subpoena as well. Then we could go after both of them."

Steve kicked moodily at the carpet. "With me helping from a jail cell."

Dave looked annoyed. "Give me a little credit, will you? And would you please quit stalking about and sit down? You're giving me a headache." He watched with furrowed brow as his client slammed his body into a chair and started drumming his fingers on the table. "What's going on, Steve? You feeling all right?"

"No," Steve said shortly. He rubbed his eyes hard and took a series of deep breaths. "Don't worry about it, Dave. I'm sorry. I'm just starting to feel a bit edgy." He deliberately avoided mentioning Randy.

Dave continued to give Steve the occasional surreptitious glance, not so sure he should believe him, while he walked his client once more through his recollection of his unplanned stay at the clinic. He could discern by the tension in Steve's face that the story had not grown easier in the telling. Finally, he put his pen down and stretched. "That should do it. We'll see just how well the good doctor performs under oath tomorrow." He stood up and briefly clasped Steve's shoulder. "Don't worry. One way or another, we'll get him."

Steve continued to feel an indeterminate irritation through his workout, despite his efforts to banish it with semi-violent exercise. He succeeded in holding it at arm's length, however, until dinner, when it rapidly and suddenly shifted into something else entirely. The trays had been brought in, and he and the five other current program participants had taken their respective places. Rob, who was on duty that evening, had just passed out glasses of water when Steve lifted the cover on his tray, took one look at his food, and turned green as a dreadfully familiar nausea struck.

"Steve? Are you all right?" Rob moved over to Steve's side of the table, just in time to keep the other man from falling as he bolted up and found the room spinning.

"No," Steve gasped, grabbing for the table to steady himself without letting his eyes fall on anything presumably edible. "Rob, please. I need to --"

Rob had already paged Jesse, who appeared within seconds, having been just down the hall from the unit. To the dazed Steve, fighting waves of dizziness, it seemed like an eternity before Jesse slid a supporting shoulder under his arm. "Come on, buddy. Let's get you where I can take a look at you."

Too nauseated to protest, Steve allowed himself to be led away. A short exam and several questions later, Jesse rubbed his neck and debated how to approach the subject.

"Spit it out, Jess." Steve's voice was ragged.

"I don't understand, Steve," Jess said, frustrated. "We haven't decreased the dose. You shouldn't be having these symptoms."

Somewhere in his spinning head, something twitched, but he was unable to bring it to the surface. "I don't know, Jess. I felt fine until just now."

Jesse peered at his eyes once more. "Feel strange at all today? Anything at all unusual?"

Steve just wanted to fall down, preferably close to a bucket. "Jess, can't this wait? Either give me some meth or let me lie down, okay?"

Muttering to himself, Jesse prepared a syringe. "I'm not going to give you very much right now. I want to check you again before lights out, and I'll give you your regular meds then. Something about this isn't right." A sideways glance at his friend was not reassuring. Instead of avoiding the sight of the needle, Steve watched it approach a little too eagerly, the tension in his face visibly relaxing as the plunger went home. Jesse wondered if he could have started skipping his medication, but then he would have expected to see some type of more definitive reaction earlier. He sighed, deciding he would simply have to wait and see. "Come on, Steve. Let's get you to your room."

He still had an hour or so to go before curfew, when he woke with a raging thirst, which, when he tried to move too impetuously, was supplemented by the return of the twitchiness he had felt all day, as well as a sudden sneezing fit out of nowhere. He reached a hand into the nightstand drawer, where his questing fingers found what further inspection proved to be one of his pills. Too groggy still to analyze the possible reasons for his find, he came to the not illogical conclusion that he hadn't yet had that day's medication. Why it was in the drawer, he didn't know, and he didn't have the energy to make the effort to find out. He got up slowly and carefully made his way to the refrigerator, gulped down most of a bottle of juice and his pill, and lay down again. When Jesse came in to check on him later, he roused sufficiently to submit to a short examination and take his meds, then dropped off once more.

For the first time in weeks, he slept through the night without dreaming. And, for the first time since that crowded initial day in rehab, he slept through the alarm, not waking until frantic hands shook him repeatedly. Somewhat irritated, he forced one eye open, only to see two worried faces staring down at him. His father and Jesse; so nice of them to wake him up, he thought, and smiled at them sleepily.

Mark and Jesse exchanged looks. "How do you feel, son?" Mark asked, while Jesse checked Steve's eyes.

Steve considered the question at length. "Sleepy." He reached up and pushed Jesse's penlight away. "Jess, stop it. That light's really annoying."

"Too bad," his best friend replied, peeved. "Steve, buddy, I'm going to take some blood, okay?"

"Whatever." He grinned at his father foolishly. "What are you doing here, Dad?"

Mark had that slightly grim measuring look. "Jesse told me you'd been having some problems, and I thought I'd check in." His eyes narrowed. "Son, have you changed your meds -- skipping them, anything like that?"

Steve blinked. The same elusive trickle of memory he had experienced the day before tried to put in an appearance and failed. "I don't think so. I took my pill last night."

"That's right," Jesse said. "I gave it to him myself."

Steve shook his head, still drowsy. "No, Jess. You weren't here. I was thirsty --" His voice trailed off as he started to drift again.

The doctors' eyes met; then Mark leaned over his son once more. Steve had fallen asleep, his breathing even, his face peaceful. He hated to wake him.

They woke him anyway. Steve resisted for a while, but their combined ingenuity and ruthlessness finally triumphed. "Dad, Jess, if I promise not to fall asleep, can I please sit down?" he complained. "I'm tired of walking in circles."

Jesse eased him into a chair, sat down across from him, and looked at him expectantly. "All right, Steve. Tell me when you took your meds yesterday."

Steve shrugged. "I woke up, and I started sneezing. I reached into the drawer for some tissues. My pill was in the drawer. I don't know how it got there. I just -- oh."

His father gave him a sharp look. "Remember something, son?"

Steve looked slightly shamefaced. "Uh -- yeah. I -- didn't take it the night before." He met their perturbed glances defiantly. "I felt logy all day that day, like I was getting too much meth. And then -- I thought I could have handled the fight with Randy better if I'd had a clearer head, so I didn't take it." Prodded to elaborate about the argument, he finally told them, albeit reluctantly.

His father put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it gently. "I'm sorry to hear that, son. I had really hoped -- but never mind. I want your promise that you'll talk to Jesse first the next time you get the urge to unilaterally change your dosage, all right?"

"I promise, Dad. I'm sorry I worried you." He fought a yawn, and lost. "Can I please go back to sleep now?"

The other two traded glances again; Mark made a desultory gesture, and Jesse scowled. "I'm going to let you have another hour, two hours max, Steve. Then I'm sending Rob in here."

Steve shuddered in mock horror. "I'll be up, I promise!"

He was almost finished with his workout that afternoon when Rob returned from taking a telephone call. The therapist was frowning. For one ghastly moment, Steve thought the slave driver was going to run him through even more strenuous exertions than he had already been given as his punishment. While he really didn't mind the opportunity to whack the hell out of the punching bag, there was a point at which he merely deflected his anger rather than resolving it, and he was tired enough to have reached that plateau now. "Please tell me you've forgiven me for oversleeping," he requested, only half-joking.

Rob pretended to consider the request for a moment. "All right. I can't think of anything else to do to you. Besides, you've got a visitor on the way up."

"Who is it?" Steve asked, surprised.

Rob shrugged. "Reception didn't say. Go ahead and use Interview 1."

Steve shrugged in his turn, and wandered off to await the mysterious arrival.

Cheryl Banks followed the directions given her without any difficulty, idly speculating as to how well her partner was really doing. Her assignment on the Wyler case had required her to spend the last three weeks at FBI headquarters in Quantico, so she hadn't seen Steve since shortly after he entered rehab. She felt a ripple of anger at the memory of how thin and ill he had looked then, and wished Wyler or Morgan was within clobbering distance. After receiving Dave Harbrook's telephone call, she had convinced her FBI counterpart that her recalcitrant partner was determined to see Morgan prosecuted, and she was needed urgently at home to try to persuade him otherwise so as not to risk the integrity of the Wyler investigation. She had her own opinions in that regard, but had decided to talk to Steve before she tried to present them as any kind of official recommendation.

He was sitting at a table, head down, concentrating on his hands, which were clasped loosely between his knees. Although he had definitely improved, she could see even through the window in the door the physical marks the stress of the last weeks and months had left on him, and could only imagine the psychological scars. She would have to tread carefully to avoid adding to his troubles. Even though their working relationship, as well as their friendship, allowed for a considerable amount of lighthearted teasing, there was also a substantial layer of affection between them as well. Dave had made sure to relay Steve's last comment, and Cheryl, taken slightly aback, was not quite sure how best to respond to it. Now she looked at the bent head, and wondered at the odd little catch in her chest. She took a deep breath, and pushed the door open.

His head came up, and his expression, which had been guarded initially, changed so swiftly, so radically, that she, on the receiving end of the light in the blue eyes and the glad smile, never had a chance. She should have worried about her own psyche, she thought ruefully, as Steve crossed the room in two strides and hugged her till she thought her ribs would crack. "Cheryl, I am so glad you're here!" he exclaimed. "Please tell me something I'll want to hear!"

She couldn't help but respond to his obvious delight, and a small portion of his brain filed the brilliance of her answering smile away for future reference. For now, he was concentrating on her in her role as bringer, he hoped, of good news.

They sat down and worked their way through the obligatory status report on his health. Steve knew better than to try to snow his partner. "I'm okay more or less, really. This last transition has been a little rough for some reason, but Jesse thinks he's got it under control."

"And how are things going with Randy?" Cheryl asked, unaware of the most recent developments, and saw with dismay the shutters come down in his face. "Steve, I'm sorry. I didn't realize --"

He shook his head and took her hand. "No, you wouldn't have known -- you've been living it up in Washington high life --" He gave her a little grin to take the sting out. "This has been hard on her, on both of us. And, at the end of it all, it seems that we really don't suit well enough past the initial attraction as it is, much less with the type of stress which has been put on the relationship. She put me out of my misery the day before yesterday." For some reason he couldn't define, he was reluctant to mention his ambiguous feelings about Rachel to his partner.

A rogue corner of her mind registered the implications of this statement; she pushed the thought away resolutely. "I'm so sorry, Steve. I really thought you two would be happy together." Without thinking, she put her free hand on top of his in sympathy.

Again the flash of a smile. "Thanks, partner." He sat up a little straighter. "Now have pity on me and tell me what you've got."

Cheryl leaned back in her chair. "Well, one thing we've definitely discovered is that Wyler was involved in an alarmingly large number of corporations, most of which are affiliated with a variety of very influential lobbies and lobbyists."

Steve moved restlessly. "Business as usual. So he was after political clout; we basically knew that."

"Yes, but we didn't know the extent to which he'd been able to broaden his supporter base," his partner pointed out. She leaned forward again. "Steve, I have to tell you something you're probably not going to like, but please bear with me."

He felt the chill stir, and shoved it aside. Not yet. Not to her. "What do you mean?"

"The FBI wants Wyler, as well as several of his best cronies, very badly." She looked uncomfortable. "But the degree of money and power involved will make it difficult to prosecute their cases thoroughly."

He was fairly certain he knew where the conversation was heading. "And they don't want the careful development of their case disturbed or, heaven forbid, destroyed, by a recovering cop with a grudge, is that it?" he asked with scorn. "I can't see that letting me have Morgan would adversely affect the larger investigation, and it would certainly make me feel a hell of lot better."

Cheryl fixed him with a look. "Steve -- I know what he did was -- traumatic. But I've got to have more than your desire for vengeance in order to sidetrack these guys. They're just going to tell you to seek professional help and learn to live with their decisions." He started to reply, but she cut him off. "Listen to me, Steve. Give me something to work with, and I will do everything I can to get you your miracle."

He blinked at her. "Didn't Dave tell you?"

She looked slightly chagrined. "He was nervous about giving me a lot of detail as to why I needed to come home; I got the feeling he wasn't on a particularly secure line."

Steve was still puzzled. "But didn't you talk to him before you came here?"

Now she was actually starting to blush. She hoped he couldn't see the heat rising in her cheeks. "Ummm -- I got his voice mail."

He had noticed; there was the beginning of a twinkle in his eyes. "So you came straight here to see me?"

She recovered fast. "Oh, now don't you go starting that innocent little-boy stuff on me. You know I hate it when you do that." She smiled anyway, and he knew he was safe for the time being. She allowed him to enjoy himself for a minute, then asked curiously, "So why did Dave Harbrook call me?"

Steve rubbed his eyes, wishing he could shake his fatigue. "First, Cheryl, please understand. I need for Morgan to pay for what he did. I don't even care so much about Wyler; a rabid dog is a rabid dog, after all. But Morgan -- he's a doctor, for Christ's sake, he's supposed to heal people, not harm them --" He had to stop; the words stuck in his throat like overcooked molasses. He rose, went to the water cooler, and gulped down several small cups of water before returning to the table. "I want you to investigate Samuel Edding for any connections to Wyler or Morgan," he said flatly.

She raised an eyebrow. "I was given the impression that had been done already," she said carefully.

Steve gave her a sharp look. "Something about the way you said that --"

Cheryl spread her hands. "It was handled by a different office -- at least, that's what I was told."

He looked at her quizzically. "And the results?"

"Non-conclusive." She took a breath. "Steve -- just so you realize -- Edding could be trouble. Big trouble."

His eyes were cold. "I don't care. If he's obstructing any criminal investigation on Morgan while he's simultaneously doing his best to destroy my life, and if he's part of Wyler's bunch of hoods, I want his hide too."

She caught a glimpse of something foreign in his expression, and wasn't sure if it was cause for alarm or not. "Steve -- I didn't say I wouldn't do it. I just want to make sure you understand what we're dealing with."

Without thinking, he moved his hand to cover her fine-boned fingers. "I understand, Cheryl. And I'll understand if you aren't in a position to do anything." The glimmer of a twinkle again. "I want to come back to my job knowing you're there waiting for me."

Underneath the light words, there was a layer of tension, too subtle for either one to specifically detect, but sufficiently perceptible to be disconcerting. Cheryl slid her hand out from under Steve's and tried to cough into it. "As long as we're clear on that."

"Clear," he agreed. "If Edding's clean, I'll cooperate with the Feds and hold my peace until they're ready. But, if he's got the least speck of dirt on him, I want Morgan. If necessary, I'll waive speedy trial and sit in here as long as it takes, if it means I can look him in the eyes and watch him go down." He became aware of the bitterness even as he tried to suppress the instinct to trigger it, and hoped she hadn't noticed it.

Whether she heard the nuance or not was debatable; but she definitely felt the temperature of the room dip suddenly. She shivered, and he immediately stood. "I'm sorry, Cheryl, I didn't realize you were cold. Let me get you some -- there's coffee, tea --"

She shook her head. "I'm all right, Steve. Don't worry about it."

He was watching her with hopeful eyes. "So -- will you do it?"

Cheryl sighed. Her usual response when he gave her that puppydog look notwithstanding, she really couldn't muster any resistance. "I can't believe I'm saying this. Yes, I will." She held up a warning hand. "Watch the ribs. I can break."

Although he had a sudden, irrational desire to kiss her, Steve wrapped her in a hug instead. She returned it quickly, then extricated herself. "I've got to go down to the station anyway. I'll come back later and let you know what I've found."

Encouraged by the absence of the word "if" from her statement, he settled for her hand. "Thanks, Cheryl. You're the best."

She tossed him a grin as she started toward the door, wondering just what was going on between the two of them, when he called her name. She turned, her expression inquiring.

"Did Dave tell you what else I said?" he asked diffidently.

She raised an eyebrow, debating whether to leave him dangling, until he managed to successfully reproduce the puppydog look. "I've missed you too," she told him quietly, and fled.


	9. Hopes and Plans

It was still dinnertime when Cheryl returned, so she settled to wait in the same room as before. Steve appeared shortly thereafter, with a quick energy he hadn't felt in a long time. "Cheryl, be good to me," he requested hopefully.

She made a sincere attempt to look serious, but the gleefulness started in her eyes and blossomed into a blinding smile. "We've got him, Steve."

She had been looking forward to giving him the good news, but had not anticipated the unbridled enthusiasm of his reaction. Delighted, he grabbed her and swung her around, and unthinkingly planted a huge kiss on her unsuspecting mouth, which turned into something else entirely as they both reacted instinctively to the touch of each other's lips. His arms wrapped around her more or less without any conscious thought on his part; equally without volition, her hands coasted lightly up the long muscles of his back, savoring the sensation.

Just as suddenly, both internal alarms shrieked into major alert, and the two jerked apart, to stand staring wordlessly at each other, neither one quite willing to be the first to break the compelling silence. It grew and tautened, until Steve finally loosed the breath he hadn't realized had collected in his lungs. "Cheryl --"

Her hand had drifted to her mouth, unconsciously resting at the spot where his lips had just been. Still staring at him, she shook her head slightly. He started to protest, but caution intervened. He certainly wasn't in any position to further complicate his affairs, he thought with a certain degree of regret. He raised his hands in mock surrender and sat down. "So what did you find?" he asked, wondering why it was so difficult to maintain a neutral tone.

Cheryl helped herself to a cup of tea, grateful for the opportunity to recover her composure. Sipping it seemed to help calm the unexpected racing of her heart. "It took a little while, but one of the Quantico boys had a bright idea while he was doublechecking Edding's educational background. Apparently he was the recipient of a full scholarship not only to college, but to law school as well."

"Let me guess," Steve said dryly. "Sammy got them from one of Wyler's foundations."

"Give that man a gold star." She bestowed that smile on him again, and again he wondered at the intensity of his internal response. He thought ruefully that he was definitely going to have to do something about his wayward love life once more pressing matters were resolved; his present vulnerability was starting to scare the bejeebies out of him.

Cheryl was giving him an odd look. "Steve? You okay?"

He shoved the interesting but equally frustrating train of thought aside with an effort. "I'm all right, thanks. Just got distracted for a minute. My meds are time-released; I still have a tendency to zone slightly when the next amount hits the bloodstream."

Her look changed to one of concern. "This can wait if you'd rather --"

Steve shook his head. "Really. I'm fine. Go on."

"Okay." Her expression was doubtful, but she continued. "Guess who helped bankroll Edding's campaign for selection for district attorney."

"Some duly obscure similar operation, also eventually traceable back to our pal Aubrey."

She nodded. "Right again."

He made a noble effort to restrain himself from kissing her again, although that same traitorous part of his mind, still reveling in the feeling of smooth velvet lips against his own, attempted once more to object strenuously to being dismissed so summarily. "So what happens now? Are you going to go back to Quantico and tell them my game has new rules?"

She wore an unusual expression, partly perturbed and partly smug, like a Cheshire cat almost ready to grin but not totally sure if it was safe. "Nothing so direct. My plan is much more devious."

He raised an eyebrow. "Does this have anything to do with the check the Feds supposedly ran on Edding before?"

Cheryl took refuge in her teacup for a moment while she contemplated the best way to tell him. "I don't know this for sure, Steve, but I think the FBI has some connection to Edding, or he does to them."

He wasn't sure he wanted to hear this, but he waited patiently. She took another sip of tea. "The initial information we were given was more or less a rubber-stamping. I found an old friend who was able to get this new stuff for me, and that was all he could give me. Even so, he told me that there were indications of additional official activity, but it was at a higher clearance level. Much higher."

Steve thought for a minute. "So -- for whatever reason, the government wants Edding in place for the time being, and it's improbable that reason is going to get shared with the likes of us. That could be awkward."

She smiled at him, totally unaware of the devastating effect. "Yes. That's why I have an idea."

He gave her a quizzical look. "Do I detect a certain note of acrimony here?"

Cheryl hesitated briefly, then decided she might as well tell him. "Don't get me wrong, Steve. On the whole, I support their approach where Wyler's concerned; he's the type you have to throw the entire penal code at in order to make it really stick. But --" She suddenly became very interested in the tea dregs in her cup.

"But what?" he asked, intrigued.

She switched her focus to his face, marvelling again at the difference a little diversion made in banishing the recent signs of stress and fatigue. "I have had a problem with how they've handled your aspect of the case, which really shouldn't be a surprise, considering I'm sitting here with you instead of in an FBI office in Virginia."

He misunderstood her. "Cheryl, I don't want you to jeopardize your own career for me --"

"No, Steve," she interrupted, "that's not what I said." She made an attempt at a deliberately lighter tone. "I want my partner back, and soon."

"Oh." Somehow, the reassurance that she was so firmly entrenched on his side made all the difference in the world. This time, he did reach for her hand, and held it as long as he dared. "Thanks, Cheryl. I know I keep saying it, but I mean it." He grinned at her engagingly, the dimples strongly in evidence. "So tell me about this scheme you've hatched."

The next afternoon, Mark, Steve, Cheryl, Jesse, Dave Harbrook and Captain Newman assembled in Mark's office, which had a speaker phone. If Newman noticed that Steve's wrists were bare of any metallic decorations, he held his peace, having already taken note of Mark's defiant expression when he intercepted the captain's glance.

The hospital operator put the call through, and Dave identified himself and the others to the FBI agent on the other end of the connection. "Mr. Williams, let me get right down to business. As you are aware, my client will be a key witness in your case against Aubrey Wyler, as he would with any case against Dr. Morgan, although it's my understanding that Dr. Morgan is not under investigation at this time."

"That's correct," the agent replied.

Dave waited for any elaboration; none was forthcoming. He gave his companions an expressive look and forged on. "I also understand that the rationale for that omission is that the Fresno district attorney's office has specifically requested the moratorium pending my client's trial."

Silence on the other end. Dave sighed. Safely extricating peanuts from a hungry elephant's trunk would be easier than this looked to be. "Mr. Edding is apparently concerned with the potential prejudicial aspects --?"

Williams sounded uncomfortable. "My instructions are only that we have agreed to defer the investigation."

Steve glanced meaningfully at Harbrook, who looked disturbed. "Is the FBI aware of Mr. Edding's connections to Wyler's organization?" the attorney inquired.

There was more silence, then the sound of a door opening. They heard muffled voices, then Williams came back on the line. "Mr. Harbrook, I've just been informed that there is a new special agent in charge of this portion of our investigation. He's going to take over this conversation."

An unexpected voice spoke. "Mr. Harbrook, my name is Ron Wagner. I'm going to be handling --"

Mark couldn't restrain himself. "Ron, you old son of a gun! How was London?"

There was a pause, then Wagner laughed. "I might have known you'd be in on this call, Mark. Who else do you have there with you waiting to ambush me? Steve, I assume."

"And Jesse, who's been handling his treatment; Steve's partner, Cheryl Banks, who's been LAPD's liaison with your outfit; and Captain Jim Newman, whom you may remember."

The usual noises of greeting were made; then Wagner got down to the matter at hand. "Steve, I realize it's not easy for you to be totally objective about this, but bear with me while I work my way through it." It sounded like he was flipping through some papers. "Hmmm. This is a little unusual."

"A little unusual?" Dave asked, not troubling to hide the sarcasm. "My client's facing serious, totally unfounded charges, the D.A.'s in bed with the target of a major government criminal investigation, and a psychotic doctor who should be locked up is free as the proverbial bird. What do you consider incredibly extraordinary, agent Wagner?"

"Hold your horses, Mr. Harbrook. Give me a minute to get up to speed." There was another pause, then Wagner said thoughtfully, "Okay. I think that should do it. Mr. Harbrook, please tell me exactly what you think the FBI should do for you."

Dave glanced around. Cheryl offered him a nod and an encouraging smile. Steve's face was starting to exhibit that all-too familiar, ominous tension. Better I lose it than he does, Dave thought grimly. "I want charges of kidnapping, wrongful imprisonment, assault and battery, at the very minimum, filed against Frank Morgan. More if you can work them in. Today. I want him in custody, no bail. I want him available for live testimony at Steve's trial."

"And you're offering us what?" Wagner inquired. If he was offended at either the gist or the tone of the demand, his voice offered no such indication.

"Steve is yours for the Wyler investigation -- which also means any testimony he gives at his own trial will not include any material not previously cleared by the FBI. We will also refrain from calling the D.A.'s potentially dirty hands into question."

Now, this was interesting, Wagner thought. "You're assuming a defense verdict, I take it."

Dave might have his internal doubts, but he was damned if he was going to reveal them to this unknown quantity with the arrogant voice, just because the Sloans evidently were on familiar terms with him. "Yes, I am."

Wagner seemed amused. "And what is your position if we don't accept this proposal?"

Annoyed, Steve opened his mouth to respond, but Dave silenced him with a quelling look. "Then it's no dice all the way around, and I'll permit, hell, no, I'll actually instruct, Lt. Sloan to implicate the whole crowd, regardless of how high those accusations reach, and any detrimental effect on your investigation be damned. And I'll go after Edding myself, starting with an official complaint to the California Bar."

"I can't let you do that," Wagner said softly.

Steve couldn't restrain himself any longer. "What the hell do you mean, Wagner? Who kept your sorry ass from being blown up in that barn?"

"Steve, please." Wagner's tone was conciliatory. "Listen to me. There are reasons why we need Edding in place and left alone. That's all I can tell you at this point --"

"So you're going to let the little rat-faced son of a bitch do his damndest to lock me up for the rest of my life?" Steve demanded hotly, feeling the familiar icy warmth start to slide through him.

Dave started to intervene before the situation got totally out of control, when he was distracted by the voice from the speaker. "No, I'm not."

"What?" chorused the listeners in Mark's office.

Ron sounded impatient. "I'm not about to let that happen. I'm in charge of this investigation now where you're concerned, Steve, and I'm a strong believer in taking care of my witnesses -- even though you could have found something else to talk about that day besides ants crawling up my leg."

Steve laughed. "Yeah, but the look on your face was worth it!"

"Anyway," Ron continued, "I see no reason why we can't make each other happy. You want Morgan, you've got him. I want you. Until the Wyler investigation, which may eventually include Morgan, is complete, you're my witness. I own you. D'you understand what that means as far as your own case is concerned?"

Dave nodded at him. "Yeah, Ron," Steve replied. "Testimony has to be within your guidelines. Does that mean we're going to be seeing you personally, or are you going to be working through Cheryl?"

"Both, probably."

"What about Edding?" Mark spoke up, curious about Wagner's earlier comment.

Ron chuckled. "You don't give up, do you, Mark? Edding is off limits. We want him right where he is. And," he added, "I really don't think you need to worry, Steve. Mr. Harbrook looks to be quite capable of beating the crap out of him in the courtroom."

Steve reported to Jess the next Saturday morning to find his father waiting for him as well. "Hi, Dad. What's up?" he asked curiously, settling himself for Jesse's examination.

Mark had been reading Steve's progress reports, which were certainly encouraging. "How are you feeling, son?"

Steve shrugged. "As well as could be expected, I guess. I'm still waking up every night for the same reason, if that's what you're wondering."

Mark nodded. "Among other things."

"Blood pressure's a little high," Jesse remarked. "How much coffee did you suck down at breakfast?"

Steve flicked his fingers at him. "One cup, Jess. That's not it." He looked up to meet his father's inquisitive expression. "I'm just a little nervous. Even with Dave's and Ron's assurances, I wish I could feel that certain that this time next week I'll be a free man."

"Morgan's in jail," Mark pointed out. "And subpoenaed for your trial."

"I know," his son said tiredly. "I'll just feel a lot better when it's all behind me."

Jesse had been making notes. "Well, the good news is that you're doing really well, Steve."

"And the bad news?" his friend inquired sharply.

Jesse looked uncomfortable. "The bad news is that I really don't feel right about taking you completely off the methadone. You don't need to be dealing with any adverse reactions when you're facing the jury." He held up his hand to forestall Steve's retort. "But the other good news is that all you'd need would be a minimal, and I mean itty-bitty minimal, dose. That should keep the edge off and you out of trouble and still keep your mind sharp."

Steve looked mutinous; his father put a calming hand on his shoulder. "Son, Jesse's right. You don't need any additional difficulties right now."

Reluctantly, he allowed himself to be persuaded. "All right, Dad, Jess."

Mark coughed. "Steve. Dave called. You have to be in court at 9:30 Monday morning, so we need to go up the day before." He paused, trying to find the right words for what he had to tell his son next.

Steve pre-empted him, having a fairly good idea what was coming. "Silver's sending separate transport for me." It wasn't a question.

Mark wondered briefly how his son could even tolerate the thought, much less the reality, of the required restraints when it made him feel almost physically sick. "Right. But Dave did make him agree to let you stay at the hotel with us, with a guard posted outside, obviously."

Steve shrugged one shoulder. "About to be expected." He stood up, unwilling to explore that particular subject any further. "Rob's waiting for me -- I have to go, Dad."

Frowning, Mark watched his son leave, then glanced at the reports in his hand with a sigh. Steve had done incredibly well during his enforced rehabilitation. He just hoped his son would survive this next ordeal intact, so he could complete the process of healing.

Steve stretched tiredly out on his bed and concentrated on the painting on the wall, wishing wholeheartedly that he was looking at the real thing. He often wondered whether he was actually part sea creature, considering how often he found himself needing to have the salt air in his lungs. Although, he reflected now, he would have settled for any kind of a view as long as it wasn't from behind a locked door; he'd had enough of those to last several lifetimes. He snapped off the light, and lay drowsily in the quiet darkness, much as he had his first night, except now the cool comfort of the methadone was barely perceptible.

As on that first night, there was a soft knock, then his father's head poked around the door. "Still awake, son?"

Steve allowed himself a small smile at his father's predictability. "Yeah, Dad. Come on in."

Mark pulled one of the chairs closer to the bed and settled into it with a tired sigh, feet propped up on the edge of the bed. Steve glanced at him with concern. Even in the darkness, his father's body language spoke volumes. "Tired, Dad?"

"A bit. It's been a long day."

They shared a comfortable silence until Steve finally stirred. "Dad."

"Yes, son?" his father replied, rubbing his neck absently.

"I'm sorry I've been so -- difficult. I know this has been hard on you, too."

Mark smiled. "It's all right, Steve. You know, under the circumstances, you've done remarkably well." He sat up a little and peered at the figure on the bed. "Are you sure you're up to this?"

Steve grunted. "No. But there's not much I can do about it, so I'll just grit my teeth and get through it." He was silent for a moment, then said, with a bitterness he couldn't quite subdue, "It's funny. It's not the trial that disturbs me right now as much as --" he couldn't make himself say it.

"As having to go up there in handcuffs," his father finished soberly.

Steve nodded. "Yes. I didn't realize it would bother me so much, still." He moved his head restlessly. "I wish it was over, Dad."

"So do I, son," his father replied. He shifted in his chair, stretching both legs out farther across the end of the bed. Amused, Steve listened as his father's breathing slowed into a regular, even rhythm punctuated by an occasional snore. He rolled onto his side and reached over to touch the hand he had held so often as a boy. "Good night, Dad."


	10. Unwelcome Acquaintances

Amazingly, he managed to sleep for a few hours before the customary nightmare jolted him to awareness. His father must have awakened and left at some point earlier, because the chair was empty. Steve scrubbed his hands across his face and rolled over, trying to stretch out taut muscles, and watched his thoughts chasing each other aimlessly until he finally dropped off to sleep again. He rose at his usual time, and applied himself to his customary routine, although, if anyone noticed he was pounding on the punching bag harder than usual, no one mentioned it.

They were all waiting for the Fresno County sheriff's office to arrive when the call came in. Mark listened intently, then flagged down his son, who had been prowling around the room after finding himself unable to sit still. "Steve -- they're here."

He had allowed some of the chill inside him to seep outward, preferring the numb sensation it provided. He drew on it now as reluctance washed through him involuntarily. "Dad -- can we meet them downstairs in the garage? I don't think I can --"

Mark nodded in full agreement. The rest of the day was going to be bad enough without deputies parading his manacled son through the halls of the hospital. He spoke into the phone and nodded again. "Okay, Steve. We'd better go down."

They determined that Mark and Dave would walk downstairs with him, then meet the others for the drive up to Fresno. Steve collected hugs, kisses and handshakes, then gathered his wits and his not totally unwelcome inner companion, squared his shoulders, and went to meet his escort, who turned out to be reasonably sensitive to his situation. Rather than using the sort of apparatus customarily utilized for transporting prisoners, they merely cuffed his hands behind him, settled him in the back seat of the cruiser as comfortably as possible, and fastened his seat belt for him. Then, after a short conversation with his father and his lawyer, they were on their way.

The deputies even tried to start innocuous conversations with him a few times. While he appreciated the effort and the underlying apparent vote of confidence, it was harder than he expected to remain calm while the skin on his wrists shrank away from the metal, and his treacherous stomach was starting to respond to his inner tension. The deputies obligingly opened the windows so he would feel less claustrophobic, and, when he finally conceded the battle to the incipient nausea and requested the opportunity to deal with it, they pulled off at the next rest stop. After the first deputy removed the cuffs, Steve headed for the privacy of a stall at a fast clip. Too preoccupied with his own misery, he failed to hear a soft thud and softer grunt of pain.

Finally, the turmoil in his recalcitrant insides eased, and he shakily reached for the door, only to fly forward, off balance, as it was abruptly yanked open, sending him tripping over the deputy's recumbent body. Dazed, he was unable to prevent rough hands from seizing him and smashing him brutally into the wall. Before he could recover from the impact, a fist rammed into his ribs, followed by a kidney punch which sent him sprawling, gasping for breath. He had yet to even catch a glimpse of his assailants.

A foot caught him hard in the ribs as he crouched on the floor, windmilling him onto his back. The size of the hand which swept downwards into his line of vision triggered a nasty feeling of familiar apprehension, which doubled as the hand grabbed his shirt collar and hauled him upright. Holding him up was the largest man he had ever seen, and one whom he had fervently hoped never to see again.

"Flores, old buddy," he wheezed. "Long time no see."

Flores opted for a repeat of one of their old games. He opened his massive paw, and Steve crashed floorwards once more. He managed to sit up, prudently determining to stay put instead of confronting the less enjoyable qualities of gravity once more.

The voice of the deputy who had originally stayed in the car addressed him. "Listen to me very carefully, Lieutenant. We have a very specific message for you."

He squinted upwards. "Is that what you told your partner before you took him out?"

The deputy waited until the coughing spasm resulting from the impact of Flores' foot with Steve's ribs subsided. "More? No? Then pay attention."

He had Steve's attention, fully and indubitably. Steve surreptitiously felt for any indications of breakage in his torso and listened, glowering.

"First -- any attempt to call for help -- or even if you make too much noise shortly -- and the first person through that door catches a bullet. Fatally. Understand?"

Steve wasn't sure he cared for the sound of that "shortly," but his options were rather limited at present. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak; he could feel the rage inside starting to bubble as it sensed an opportunity, and clamped down on it hard. He was going to control it this time instead of the other way around, and try to use it effectively when the opportunity arose.

"All right," the deputy said. "This is a friendly little reminder to watch very carefully what you say in the next few days, especially on the witness stand. Mr. Wyler has been annoyed enough as a result of the activities of you and your friends. And a certain attorney's name, or that of his office, had better go unmentioned."

Steve blinked. Obviously they knew nothing of his deal with the FBI. "And Morgan?" he growled.

The deputy shrugged. "Morgan screwed up."

"I take it that's the answer to my question," Steve said dryly.

"That's correct. And I'm sure you realize that this entire conversation never happened. You were never threatened. As far as the rest of it goes, understand this also. You're not the only potential target for any kind of -- retaliation." As Steve stared at him, the angry heat inside gaining strength, he added, "Anyone close to you could be affected by your making the wrong decision. Even those two handsome little boys belonging to your charming friend Amanda."

Now he focused and aimed the rage, and erupted off of the floor, hoping the element of surprise would get him close enough to the deputy's weapon. His plan would have worked, too, except he had forgotten the incredible speed of Flores' reflexes. The big man literally plucked him out of mid-air and flung him hard into the marbled edge of the sink. He tried to muster the coordination to recover, but his muscles seemed to be unwilling to work in cooperation with each other. He tried anyway, and got as far as turning around to face his attackers, before Flores contemptuously placed a hand on Steve's chest and pushed him back. The edge of the sink this time caught him in the same place as the initial kidney punch, and drove the air out of his lungs with an explosive gasp.

"We don't have time for this," the deputy snapped. Flores picked Steve up again, one meaty arm wrapped around his throat in a choke hold, the other forcing his right arm flat against the wall. The grip was like iron, and Steve realized very quickly that any attempt to break it would not only be pointless, but would most likely be rewarded with pain. Considerable pain. He wasn't feeling that brave or that lucky.

The deputy pulled out his nightstick. "This is to make sure you do remember."

Flores' paw clamped down hard, and Steve barely succeeded in suppressing the sounds deep in his throat as the weapon slammed into his right elbow. Before he could assess the damage, the stick connected again. This time, he not only felt but heard the bones snap, and the subsequent sickness, along with the effort to stifle the ugly noises which threatened to emerge, made his head swim. A third vicious blow, and Flores released him to sink to his knees, hunching helplessly over his injured arm.

The deputy strode closer. "I'm going to advise your father, who's undoubtedly pacing out there, that you had an unfortunate accident. I suggest you don't try to convince him otherwise." He turned away, then swung back. "By the way -- it could have easily been your left arm. Remember that."

He wasn't sure how long he crouched there, sobbing for breath and nursing his arm, trying to persuade himself that it wasn't shattered beyond repair, and just as uselessly attempting to convince himself that the fear in the pit of his stomach wasn't real. His arm was definitely broken in two separate places, however, slightly below the elbow and just above his wrist. The sick feeling increasing, he realized that his regular dosage of methadone from the night before was in no way capable of dulling, much less masking, the intensifying pain. The door looked light years away.

Somehow, he pushed himself upright, although he almost passed out when he inadvertently tried to balance himself with his useless arm. Swearing softly, continuously, monotonously through his teeth, he crawled up the wall until, what seemed like years later, he was more or less perpendicular with the floor. He took a hesitant step, and grabbed for his right wrist as the weight of his arm swung it away from his body and the broken bones scraped against each other horribly. The dizziness easing, as he clutched his wrist and tucked the damaged elbow as close to aching ribs as possible, he cautiously ventured towards the door, hoping fervently there were no anxious motorists in dire need of a pit stop on the outside. Naturally, when he more or less leaned through the door, he found his father literally on the other side of it, looking for him.

Mark caught his son as he swayed off balance. "Steve! What happened?"

Steve's tenuous grip on steadiness was fading by the second. "There's an injured deputy in there," he managed to whisper; then he lost his precarious control over his body and slid bonelessly through his father's arms towards the ground. His father succeeded in halting his sudden descent, and eased him down carefully, stripping off his jacket to bundle it under Steve's head. "Give me your jacket, Dave," Mark ordered. "He's going into shock."

Steve's recollection of the next hour or so was hazy. There were several figures rushing about; and then he was being carefully lifted onto a stretcher. Gentle hands examined his arm, asking him questions which he apparently was able to answer, although he promptly forgot both questions and responses. He saw his father talking to the paramedics, and caught the word "methadone," but an incautious movement started ribs and arm screaming, and he forgot what he had heard. Then a cool softness wrapped itself around him, and he drifted off, no longer aware of the pain.


	11. Fear and Loathing in Fresno

The right forefinger tapped, almost of its own volition, as Judge Wharton scanned the faces before her. The two attorneys looked confident; the defendant's expression could only be described as strained; and the spectators oozed expectation. Her gaze snapped back to the tall man with the arresting blue eyes. They were much clearer than on his previous visit to her courtroom, although weariness still lurked in their depths. The sling on his right arm puzzled her; it couldn't possibly be due to the same gunshot wounds six weeks earlier.

"Lt. Sloan," she asked curiously, "what happened to you this time?"

He flushed. "One of those careless slips and falls they warn you about on TV, your Honor. I just landed badly."

She noted the flicker in Mark Sloan's eyes, but decided not to call them on it. Not a bad story, necessarily; just not the right one. She filed that thought away for future reference. "I take it your medical condition has improved sufficiently for you to stand trial?"

His neck still slightly tinged with red, he assured her he was fine, although she sensed another slight ripple in the reaction of the group before her. She pondered a moment, then beckoned the attorneys to approach. "Gentlemen," she said in a voice too low to be heard beyond where they stood, "I'm going to say this only once. Any foolish surprises or grandstanding, and you're in contempt. Do you understand?" Startled, they nodded, and she addressed Dave again.

"Mr. Harbrook, I want your assurance that your client is well enough. Otherwise, I'm continuing this proceeding."

Dave pushed air into his throat. "He's fine, your Honor."

The gimlet eyes bored into him. "He hasn't yet completed his rehabilitation, has he?"

"No, your Honor," Dave replied carefully, "he hasn't. He's maybe a week, two weeks max, away. It's my understanding also that the dosage is minimal, and that Dr. Travis ordered it continued primarily due to the injuries to my client's arm when -- he broke it." He hoped his expression was sufficiently open and reassuring. "He's more than well enough to deal with this."

Judge Wharton's gaze travelled from Dave's face to that of his tense client, to the noncommittal countenance of D.A. Edding. "All right, gentlemen," she conceded. "Bailiff, bring in the panel."

To Steve, unfamiliar with the initial portions of the judicial process, it seemed like an indecently short period of time passed before a jury was selected. He told Dave so when they broke for lunch, and was shocked when his attorney laughed.

"Steve, we've got a good group out there. They're educated, reasonably sophisticated, and they look like they're capable of listening to evidence and evaluating it intelligently. That's not always easy to find." He leaned closer and lowered his voice. "I think the blonde in the front row is attracted to you; don't overdo it, but don't be afraid to make eye contact with her periodically."

Steve stared at him in disbelief. "You're kidding," he said finally.

Dave shook his head. "No way," he replied with a grin. "You'd be amazed at what works. All you need is one juror who starts to feel a little more critical of the prosecution, and you can achieve a lot."

Steve shrugged and agreed to follow his lawyer's instructions, although he couldn't help but take note of the irony. Right now, it seemed like he was attracting more female interest than he could handle without adding to his difficulties.

The prosecution's case, he thought sourly, was fairly pathetic. He couldn't figure out how Edding, even with presumable marching orders from Wyler, could have justified the investigation which had targeted him, much less actually filing charges. As far as Steve could determine, the only actual physical evidence which could be used against him in the attack on Rachel were the bloody restraints. Dave demolished that quickly and neatly, forcing the state's witnesses to admit that Steve had hardly had the necessary freedom of movement to give his jailers the slip and attack his nurse in his room, all without anyone seeing him.

But, Edding argued, Steve's attack on the doctor was obvious evidence of his uncontrollable rage and desire for revenge, and therefore it was not inconceivable that Steve could have perceived Rachel as a willing accomplice. In fact, the D.A. implied shock that Steve had not agreed to a plea of insanity. Dave leapt to his feet then, objecting, but the judge was already shutting Edding down. Steve wondered, however, if the damage had already been done; the words, once spoken, couldn't be unsaid. He wasn't totally sure himself that a good argument for temporary insanity couldn't have been made, at least with regard to his attack on Morgan, which he had to admit had been so close to the edge as to almost push him over it.

That one was at least less problematic for the narrow-faced prosecutor. That Steve had assaulted the doctor couldn't be denied; but the twin spectres of severely extenuating circumstances and fear for one's own safety had raised their bothersome heads, threatening his case, and Edding knew it. He dragged out the state's presentation as long as he could, but finally had to concede the stage to his opponent.

Due to the lateness of the afternoon, the judge recessed until the next morning. Steve was escorted back to the hotel by two newly selected and thoroughly screened deputies. The group assembled in the sitting room of the suite Mark had reserved for what began as a strategic planning session and rapidly devolved into splinter conversations as Steve lost interest in chewing over the events of the day. He had only picked at, and finally given up on, the Chinese takeout they had ordered, and now prowled the suite, unable or unwilling to settle anywhere for very long.

Mark watched him with increasing concern and irritation. "You're making me dizzy, son," he complained, only half joking.

Steve had stopped temporarily at the window, to stare outside moodily. "Can't get comfortable, Dad."

Mark gave him a closer look. Steve's ribs and back were obviously troubling him; he was standing with shoulders hunched, good hand jammed into his pants pocket. "Arm bothering you too, son?"

Steve sighed noiselessly, and eased into an armchair across from his father. "Yeah. I guess so."

Despite the presence of other people in the room, it was almost as if he and his father were insulated from their conversations. "Do you want to tell me what really happened to you, son?" his father asked, very quietly.

"No," Steve said shortly.

His father just looked at him, brows slightly raised, wise eyes regarding him so calmly. He squirmed. "Dad -- I can't. Please don't ask me."

The eyebrows slid higher, but his father seemed undisturbed. "All right, Steve. I'll be right here when you're ready to tell me."

Much later, as Mark woke for the umpteenth time, attuned to his son's restlessness, he couldn't help wishing that he'd been a little more aggressive in his approach. He almost got up himself several times, each time changing his mind, recognizing Steve's need to work through it on his own. Finally, however, he got out of bed and started searching through his medical bag.

The voice from the window was icily quiet. "Thanks, Dad, but I don't want any."

Mark wasn't inclined to cooperate. "You're not going to get very much."

Steve sighed. "I can't afford to take any chances with tomorrow, Dad. I need a clear head."

"I'm trying to make sure that's what you have," his father retorted. "All I'm going to do is make sure you get some rest first." He flicked the light on so he could measure the dosage.

Steve started pacing again. "Dad, I'm serious."

"So am I, son." His father gave him a searching look, then apparently relented. "I have a proposition for you. I won't insist on you taking this if you tell me the truth about your arm."

Steve flung himself into a chair, twisting awkwardly at the last minute in order to avoid jolting the appendage in question. "Dad -- I can't."

Mark leaned against the table, rolling the syringe between his fingers. "Can't or won't?"

Steve blew out an explosive breath. "Either one, Dad. I'm not exactly in the mood for games." He started to fiddle with his cast, avoiding his father's eyes.

"Steve."

The voice was quiet, authoritative, and inexorable. Unwillingly, he glanced up, to find his father standing before him, frowning at him.

"I've given you considerable license. I understand you have to travel your own road in order to recover properly. But this will not do." Mark paused, hoping not to have to say more, but his son's mulish expression set him off. "Do you have any idea what went through my mind when you came staggering through that door, face white as a sheet, blood dripping from your fingertips?" he asked angrily.

Steve winced, but said nothing.

Mark's ire escalated. "For that matter, do you have any inkling, glimmering, concept whatsoever, of how we felt while you were missing? Not knowing where you were, what condition you were in, if you were even in any condition at all? Or," he demanded, "having you do your damndest to shove us away?" He saw his son's body jerk with the impact of his harsh words, and wished heartily that they weren't necessary; but he couldn't afford to ease up on Steve now. "It's hard enough living with the knowledge that that one terrible phone call is always a possibility, without having to second-guess whether you're planning on being fit for polite company as well."

He would have continued in this vein longer, but Steve suddenly capitulated. "All right.-- All right, Dad, I can't stand this any more. I'll take the medicine."

Mark fixed him with a quelling stare. "After you tell me."

"I thought you were offering a deal."

Mark shook his head. "That was a one-time offer for a limited amount of time. You've run out. Now talk."

There was no perceivable way out of this conversation. He took a deep breath. "Dad -- please understand. You don't know any of this."

"I know," his father agreed, then thought better of his response. "Wait. I know; no, I don't know. What don't I know?" he asked, with only natural exasperation.

"If Wyler finds out I talked, he won't necessarily go after me," Steve said grimly. Slowly, with some difficulty, he related the sordid little story to his father. "So, Dad, you see, I can't -- I can't just arbitrarily assume everyone will be safe. And --" He stopped, searching for the right words.

His father had no such compunction. "And you're going to let yourself be intimidated into keeping your mouth shut. This isn't you, son."

Steve's head came up, anger sparking the blue eyes. "Dad, I'm not me. I'm not the same person who drove away that morning. I have to learn to live with what's happened to me. And this is hard enough without you giving me grief about it." His eyes went hard. "I don't like being threatened by Wyler either. But I can't --"

"You can't permit threats against you or me to keep you from doing the right thing," his father stated bluntly.

"Dad, it's not just that!" he almost shouted. "Weren't you listening?"

Hearing the note of increasing strain in his son's voice, Mark relented slightly. If he let Steve get too excited, any medication would be ineffective, which more or less would make this entire exercise pointless. "All right, son," he said as calmly as possible. "Tell me again."

Steve rubbed his eyes, starting to feel the fatigue. "They didn't limit themselves to either of us, Dad," he said tiredly, unhappily. "They included the whole group -- even --" His throat felt thick; he took a deep breath and pushed the ugly words out. "Even Amanda's boys." His fists clenched. "I can't take that chance, do that to her. And I couldn't live with myself if anything happened."

"Oh." Mark sagged back against the chair cushion. What a mess. As he had done so many times since finding his son lying in a puddle of blood in that hellhole, he wished Wyler or Morgan were within arm's reach; his fingers itched to strangle them both for what they had done to Steve, for this long, difficult road they had made him travel. He put a reassuring hand on his son's shoulder, automatically kneading the tense muscles. "I understand, son. We'll find a way to get through this and keep everyone safe." He started to get to his feet.

"Dad?"

"What is it, son?"

Steve looked exhausted. "I think you're right about getting some rest." With difficulty, he started to ask, "Would you --?"

Mark nodded. "Go lie down."

He sat by his son's bedside, as it seemed he had been doing so often lately, and watched as the drug took effect. Steve's arm had definitely been bothering him, because he shifted awkwardly, then more easily, as he slowly relaxed into sleep. Mark waited until his breathing had deepened into a steady rhythm, then crawled back into his own bed and willed himself to take his own advice.


	12. Law and Semi Order, Part 1

Dave started the defense aggressively by calling Jesse as his first witness. Painstakingly, he walked Jesse through his fateful visit to the clinic, making sure the jury received the full, disturbing effect of the young doctor's initial reaction to what he found. Steve himself sat numbly, trying to keep a tight rein on his thoughts, as his best friend described his dismay at Steve's condition and related his subsequent conversation with Rachel about Steve's care and impending rescue. He wasn't sure which was worse: having to tell his story himself, or being forced to listen to Jesse's simple narrative, told in a voice rough with emotion. It was a potent reminder that his family and friends had been put through considerable trauma themselves, and the guilt for being the cause of that pain washed over him again. He shut his eyes for a minute, willing himself to be calm, and opened them to meet the concerned gaze of the woman Dave had mentioned earlier. Uncomfortably, remembering Dave's advice, he held her eyes momentarily, then looked away.

Asked by Edding if he thought Steve would have been capable of the vicious attack on Rachel, and barely restraining the urge to call the D.A. an idiot, Jesse stated grimly that, among other things, it was highly unlikely that Steve would even have had the strength for any kind of sustained physical activity, much less systematically battering someone into oblivion. "I don't mean to sound brutal or callous," he added earnestly to the jury, trying to get a grip on his own feelings, "but it's a simple fact. He was in no shape for something like that."

Dave ran the young doctor through a description of his rehab treatment program. This was easier. Jesse testified calmly and clearly, even keeping his cool when Edding, on cross-examination, tried to relate Steve's addiction to the prosecutor's continued attempts to call Steve's sanity into question.

Dave, however, had had enough. "Your Honor, the defense has made no attempt, nor do we intend, to plead an insanity defense, and any representations we make as to state of mind at the time are simply that, no more."

Judge Wharton agreed. "Mr. Edding. I'm not going to say this again. You will restrict any questions along this line to state of mind, and that's as far as you go. Do you understand?" she asked acidly.

The D.A. flashed a resentful look towards his opponent. "Yes, your Honor." Frustrated, he wrapped up his cross-examination, and sat down.

Dave asked Jesse a few questions on rebuttal, then indicated the doctor was finished. He then called Dr. Morgan, immediately going on the offensive by asking the doctor to justify his rationale for his research. "Please enlighten us, doctor," he asked bluntly, "just what beneficial effect you could possibly hope to accomplish by combining a potentially addictive narcotic with a known dangerous halllucinogen?"

Morgan's thesis, as Mark had discovered earlier, was weak on paper. It held up even less well in open court. The expressions on the faces of the jury ranged from shock to outrage. The blonde woman in the front looked particularly upset, Steve realized. He had discovered it was easier to watch the jury's reactions while he listened impassively to Morgan's stumbling testimony than it had been during Jesse's passionate answers, when he had simply wished the ground would swallow him up where he sat.

And Morgan made a terrible witness. Highly defensive about his pet project in any event, he became more and more evasive and ineffective as Dave pounded him repeatedly, frequently tripping him up by pointing out inconsistencies between his statements at deposition and his current testimony. Despite Edding's attempts at damage control, Dave came off the clear winner in that round.

Steve was not allowed to feel relieved for long, however. Over lunch, his attorney filled him in on the plan for the rest of the day.

"I gave some thought to what you told me about Ms. Pauling, Steve," Dave said, cutting his chicken into manageable pieces.

Steve looked up in alarm from the chopped sirloin he had been more or less pushing about on the plate. "What do you mean?"

Dave gave him a level glance. "You made her a promise, you said."

The eyebrows were starting to slide downwards. "And as I recall you weren't interested."

"Changed my mind," Dave said flatly. "I'm calling her as the next witness."

Steve stared at his lawyer, his food forgotten. "I thought you said her testimony would be suspect because of her -- feelings for me."

Dave took a bite of chicken and maddeningly chewed it thoroughly before replying. "That was before we got this jury and I had the opportunity to pulverize Morgan. Besides, I talked to her last night."

Steve choked on his water, and began to cough uncontrollably, wincing in pain as the spasms pulled at his sore ribs and back. "You did what?" he sputtered finally.

"Talked to her," Dave replied calmly. "She phoned my office yesterday, and I called her back."

"She can actually speak now?" Steve asked, unsure how to feel about this latest development.

Dave nodded and swallowed. "She told me in no uncertain terms that she planned to come, and she expected to be able to take the stand."

Steve slid his unoffending plate aside, appetite having done a vanishing act. His lawyer glanced at him with concern. "I thought you wanted her to testify."

He sighed. "Dave, right now I don't know what I want. I have basically two modes -- scared and numb. I'm not sure I'm particularly capable of critical analysis." He made a feeble attempt at a grin. "That's why you're here."

Dave looked doubtful. "As long as you're sure you're okay with this, Steve. Don't get me wrong; I think her testimony's important, but I'm not going to force you to agree to it." He gave his client a critical look. "You may not be allowed to see her first, you know."

Steve rose and started prowling around the small room, temporarily arousing the curiosity of the deputy posted outside the door. "And after?" he asked.

Dave shrugged. "Depends."

Steve grunted, worrying at the thought like a dog with a bone, still pacing. There was a knock at the door, and he glanced up, expecting to be told it was time to go back, but the deputy motioned to Dave.

"Mr. Harbrook? You're needed out here for a moment."

Steve had stopped prowling to lean against the wall with his good hand, much like a runner stretching, when the door opened again. "Time to go?" he asked, without turning. There was a strange whirring sound, and he caught a faint trace of wisteria in the air, evoking a flash of cool hands, warm eyes, and soft voice. Half afraid of what he would find, he swung around.

She was sitting in an electric wheelchair, a brace on her left knee and her right forearm in a cast up to her knuckles. Hesitantly, he let his eyes travel to her face. There was bruising from her recent surgery, and the suture lines were unavoidable, although the wiring was gone. But her mouth was smiling, and her eyes still held that elusive pull which had engulfed him before. He made to speak, and realized his vocal chords were being constricted by the same fierce hand which had wrapped itself around his heart and lungs. Wordlessly, he went to her and took both her hands in his good one, still unable to force any sound from his throat.

"Steve? Are you all right? What happened to your arm?" Her speech was slow, but recognizable, and still the same soothing voice which had calmed him so many times during his trip through hell. The sound of his name as she spoke it made him tremble.

"Rachel," he managed finally, still leaning over her, clutching her hands. His abused ribs ultimately took exception to his stance; he hooked a chair over with a foot and sat facing her, still not releasing his grip. Belatedly, he registered her question. Both questions, actually. "I'm all right. I just got careless, broke my arm." He winced inwardly at the lie, but he definitely wasn't going to tell her about Flores. "Rachel, what are you doing here?"

She gave him that stern look. "You made me a promise, remember?"

He tried to soft-peddle it. "Neither one of us was thinking very clearly that day, Rachel. I don't expect you to --"

"To testify on your behalf -- looking like this?" she asked shrewdly.

He flinched at the reminder, but held firm. "Yes."

Rachel smiled at him. "But I intend to -- now and again when Morgan goes to trial. I owe you that much."

The words, spoken lightly, nonetheless hit him like a ton of bricks. His heart constricted even more, if that were possible. "Is that all it is?" he asked diffidently, steeling himself for the answer.

She stared at him, searching for the right words. Finally, when he began to despair of receiving an answer, she made up her mind. "No, Steve, it's not," she said firmly.

His head came up, eyes glinting. "And?" he asked hopefully.

"I -- care about you, Steve," she replied, a tinge of red staining her cheeks.

"About? And -- for?" he asked, not taking his eyes from her face.

It wasn't fair, she decided. He was doing that burning thing with those incredibly blue eyes, and she had no ability to muster any defenses to it whatsoever. "For, too," she replied in a small voice, trying desperately to keep her head as those eyes blazed with the intensity of his reaction. Then she felt the touch of his mouth on hers, tentative at first, then more firmly, as he leaned forward and kissed her, and lost all semblance of objectivity.

Steve was drowning and totally unwilling to save himself. Unconsciously, his good hand came up to cup her cheek gently as the lips beneath his turned silken, promising sweetness to come, the heady scent of wisteria filling his senses.

A slight cough pulled them apart, and Steve looked up guiltily to see his lawyer standing in the doorway, a slight smile on his lips. Dave nodded at him. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but it's time to go back. Ms. Pauling, may I give you any assistance?"

"Just a sec, Dave," Steve said hurriedly. He turned back to her. "Rachel, I --"

She put the fingers of her good hand to his mouth. "Steve, you don't have to make any decisions today. We have plenty of time to explore our feelings."

Wonderingly, he fell into those astounding eyes again, wisteria everywhere. More to clear his head than for any other reason, he kissed the fingers at his lips. "All right, Rachel, but that's another promise I intend to keep."

Numbly, he watched her move away, chair whirring gently, not even paying attention when his guard replaced the cuffs and escorted him back to the courtroom. His father noticed his preoccupation, and would have inquired further, but Dave's first statement following the judge's return satisfied his curiosity.

"The defense calls Rachel Pauling."

And there was no denying that she caused quite a stir as she wheeled up to the witness stand, limped into it, and took the oath in her slow, deliberate voice, all eyes staring in fascination at her scarred face. With only occasional nudging from Dave, she told her story concisely and as clearly as possible under the circumstances.

"So, Ms. Pauling," Dave said pleasantly, aware of the rapt attention of all in the room, "please tell us whether you believe the defendant to be the man who attacked you."

She gave Steve a small smile, and faced the jury squarely. "No. Absolutely not," she declared firmly, and listened with considerable pleasure to the consternated reaction of the spectators. Although Edding then did his level best to shake her testimony, she remained firm, and her calm, quiet demeanor made a substantial impression on her listeners. The prosecutor finally exhausted his ingenuity, and Rachel was excused. She wheeled herself out with a dignity equal to her entrance, all eyes again riveted to her as she departed.

Dave then put first Amanda, then Mark, on as character witnesses, following his testimonial one-two punch with Captain Newman, who presented a succinct but compelling account of Steve's career record. As Newman read the list of awards his most capable officer had received, Steve tried to watch the jury's reactions without looking too obvious about it. It was clear that they were impressed, and it certainly seemed that they were troubled about the validity of the charges against him. For the first time since the trial started, possibly even in the last several days, he felt the tight band of pressure around his lungs ease slightly, as some of the tension in his muscles dissipated, and he actually allowed himself to hope that Dave's plan of attack would work.

Edding didn't even try to put much effort into cross-examination of the trio. There really wasn't much to be accomplished; Steve's professional credentials were outstanding, and the D.A. stood nothing to gain by attempting to discredit either Mark or Amanda. He had his sights set on the primary target anyway, since Steve had already stated his intention of testifying on his own behalf.

It was getting late, however. Judge Wharton inquired as to remaining defense witnesses, and, when Dave indicated only Steve remained, she decided to recess until the next morning rather than break for the night in the middle of his testimony.

They were debating the virtues of pizza compared to barbecue from the local purveyor when there was a knock on the hotel suite door, interrupting Jesse, who was advocating barbecue as the only sensible business decision. Cheryl was closest, and answered the door.

The soft voice Steve had heard tantalizingly in his head all afternoon spoke. "May I come in?"

Cheryl flicked a quick glance at the lawyer. "Are you going to need Ms. Pauling as a rebuttal witness, Dave?" she inquired.

He debated briefly, then shook his head. "No, that shouldn't be necessary. She made her point quite clearly this afternoon." He rose and went to greet her. "Ms. Pauling, thank you again for your help. I hope it wasn't too much of an ordeal."

She smiled at him, and he could easily see why she would have attracted Steve's attention. "I'm just glad I could come. And please call me Rachel."

He returned the smile. "Rachel, this is Cheryl Banks, Steve's partner; his father, Dr. Mark Sloan; Dr. Amanda Bentley, a very good friend of the family; you remember Jesse; and of course," grinning now, "you know Steve." He glanced around, hoping to get through a potential difficult moment as quickly and painlessly as possible. "Where's --?"

"She was talking with one of the other lawyers working on the class action, and said she'd be down as soon as she was finished," Cheryl replied, observing Rachel surreptitiously but thoroughly. As a peculiar byproduct of her close working relationship with Steve, she had developed the ability to sense the electricity when a woman was interested in him, and this one was definitely emitting little tiny sparks. As Steve moved by her to greet Rachel, she felt the heat coming from him as well. For some reason she couldn't quite pin down, however, she felt vaguely perturbed instead of humorously tolerant. Because he had kissed her that day? No. She shook herself mentally, and pushed the distracting thought aside; grudgingly, it slid away, tabled but not forgotten.

Steve had taken Rachel's hands and was smiling down at her, heart, as well as danger signs, in his eyes. She squeezed his fingers and gently extricated her hand. "I wanted to make sure you were all right," she explained, "and I was hoping to meet your family." She glanced up at the distinguished-looking doctor with the kind eyes who had been introduced as Steve's father. "He did mention you, you know," Rachel said gently, "only unfortunately not coherently enough until the night he told me how to reach you. But it's clear to me now that you all were in his thoughts often."

"My ravings, you mean," Steve remarked wryly.

Mark shot him a mildly reproving glance and treated Rachel to his version of the famous Sloan smile, which she realized was as perilous as his son's in its own way. "Thank you for taking care of my son," he said simply, and, on impulse, leaned down and hugged her.

Just then the door opened, and Randy came in quickly, irritation apparent in the cadence of her step. "Would you believe Wyler's still underground?" she demanded of the inhabitants of the room in general. "I really wish --" Her voice ground to a halt as she took note of the newcomer and the expression on Steve's face. She opened her mouth to speak, but Dave was there suddenly, kind, worried eyes glued to her as he took her hands and kissed her lightly. "Randy, my dear," he said, with only a slight warning glance at her, "this is Rachel Pauling. Rachel, Randy Wolfe, another good family friend."

Rachel looked puzzled, and Steve realized with horror that somehow he had never had the chance to explain his new-found state of non-marriage to her; and he wasn't sure this was the best time to try. Randy saw the sick awareness in his eyes, and the hostility she had felt since walking into the room evaporated. She had come to terms with the whole mess, and had made her decision, which, as she recognized the extent of her feelings for Dave, had ultimately been the right one. In all fairness, she couldn't keep penalizing Steve for a mistake they had made together. And this woman had obviously paid a much higher price for her feelings.

"We were posing as an engaged couple in order to find out what had happened to my sister. Since Wyler never had the legal authority to perform weddings, we were never actually married." She smiled at Steve, who let out the breath he had been holding with not quite noticeable relief. "I told Steve what we'd discovered once he was well enough, and we agreed to simply be very good friends." She switched her attention from the gratitude in those intense blue eyes to the woman in the wheelchair. "Thank you for everything you've done for him."

Rachel was becoming visibly uncomfortable with all the attention. Mark glanced at Steve, who was looking at her as if he'd never seen a woman before, and therefore was not likely to be of much practical help, and took pity on her. "Rachel, we were just discussing the relative merits of barbecue as compared to pizza. Would you please join us and help solve the dilemma?" He waggled his eyebrows at her hopefully.

She couldn't help but laugh. "That would be lovely, as long as the pizza contingent doesn't object. I vote with the barbecue faction, hands down."

Mark came awake suddenly with the vague sense of disturbance which invariably strikes in the dim, grey-black hours before dawn. His initial confusion was speedily resolved, however, by the sounds drifting into the room despite a firmly closed bathroom door. Somehow, he didn't think it was because the barbecue dinner had disagreed with his son's digestive system. This was the third time that night; he flipped on the light and waited patiently.

Steve eventually emerged, shakily, moving as quietly as possible until the lamplight registered and he threw a slightly shamefaced look at his father. "I'm sorry, Dad. I didn't mean to wake you."

Mark waved a hand. "Not a problem, son. I just wish you'd get some sleep."

Steve shook his head and leaned against the window, staring out into the darkness. His bare chest was damp with sweat. "I don't know how much more of this I can take, Dad."

His father wisely said nothing, sensing his need to talk, but also understanding intuitively that it needed to be at his own pace.

"I keep telling myself that I can get through it, that in a few days I'll be able to -- to go home," Steve said painfully. "And then the panic hits, and I'm not so sure." He put his left fist precisely against the glass, as if measuring its potential resistance to a blow. "It's almost like the worst of the withdrawal; I can taste it, smell it, touch it, do everything but actually have my freedom." He was on the move again, prowling around the suite like a caged animal.

Mark gave him a worried look. "I don't think it's advisable to give you any additional meds at this point, son."

Steve laughed, a short, brittle sound. "Wouldn't do me any good anyway, Dad."

"Hmmm." Mark started rummaging in his suitcase. "This may seem hokey, but it's worth a try. Park yourself in the recliner over there," he ordered.

Steve had already tried out the piece of furniture in question; it was a massively overstuffed, incredibly comfortable beast of a chair which literally swallowed up the person sitting in it. It was also virtually impossible to get out of it without determined assistance. "Little shop of horrors?" he asked with a trace of a grin.

His father nodded. "Sit. And if it says, 'FEED ME', I don't want to know."

The grin emerged properly, and Steve cautiously descended into the recliner's depths, giving his father a dubious look as the latter approached.

"Close your eyes," Mark commanded, and he obeyed, although not without question.

"Dad -- what are you doing?"

Mark smacked him lightly upside the head. "Quiet. You'll find out. Eyes closed?" He bent to make sure his son wasn't peeking, then set and adjusted a set of earphones on Steve's head.

Intrigued in spite of himself, Steve obediently kept his eyes closed. Whatever his father had in mind, he thought, was fine as long as it made him happy. A small, oblong box was pushed into his good hand, and he felt a button moving. It felt like a -- tape recorder? He started to open his eyes; then he heard, slowly, the sound of waves rolling in to break on the shore, followed by the shriek of a gull and more waves. "Dad -- what --?"

"I set up the tape recorder down on the beach a few afternoons ago."

His throat closed. "Our beach?" he asked thickly, opening his eyes to stare at his father.

Mark nodded. "Yes. I thought you might want to hear it at least."

Steve closed his eyes again. "Dad -- I don't know what to say. Thank you sounds so terribly inadequate."

Mark put his hand on his son's shoulder. "Maybe to you. To me, having you here to say it, it means all the world." He yawned. "Try not to stay up playing with that for the rest of the night, will you, son?"

Steve chuckled. "All right, Dad. Good night."

Mark awoke briefly a little later, glancing automatically over at the omnivorous chair. His son slept soundly, good hand dangling, an occasional soft snore escaping him. Mark allowed himself a smile and rolled over, to soon fall asleep himself once more.


	13. Law and Semi Order, Part 2

True to his word, Ron Wagner arrived the next morning, precisely and fortuitously in time for breakfast. "Bad enough the cat drags you in," Steve remarked jokingly, "but with unerring accuracy at mealtime." They shook hands, and he added, "I take it you're here to help me keep my end of the bargain?"

Ron grinned at him. "For now. We still have to keep an eye on you when it's Morgan's turn; and then, once Wyler surfaces, you'll really get a taste of it."

Steve winced theatrically. "Had to remind me, didn't you?" He slapped the other man on the back. "Come on, get something to eat. I think Dave's the only one you haven't met in person."

Mark watched the three men discussing strategy, glad of the opportunity to observe his son in peace, and also thankful for Ron's presence. The two had become reasonably good friends following the Sweeney case, despite the fact that they seemed to be determined to harass each other mercilessly. He supposed with amusement that it might have something to do with the frequency with which they had encountered explosive devices together; they must have landed on their heads once too often. In any event, the need to pick on Ron and defend himself against predictable retaliation had done Steve good. The lines of tension, although still discernible, had eased substantially, and Steve looked relaxed for the first time in days.

Watching the other two men clowning around, Dave was thinking much the same thing. He hated to break it up, but it was time. "Uh, gentlemen -- I'm afraid we need to wrap this up."

There was a knock, and Jesse and Amanda came in. She tensed slightly upon seeing Ron, but managed to give him a smile. "Ron, it's nice to see you. I'm glad you're able to help Steve." She turned to the latter and eyed him critically until he started to squirm.

"What is it, Amanda? Did I put on the wrong tie or something?"

She laughed. "Considering I know very well your father helped you with it, I doubt that." She fastened one button on his jacket and smiled at him.

He gave her a one-armed hug. "This time it fits better, doesn't it," he said affectionately. He glanced up, still relaxed enough to keep the look of strain from reappearing. "I believe my escort's waiting, so -- I'll see you all over there."

Unfortunately, there was some delay in the transportation, and, by the time he reached the courthouse, his nerves were starting to give serious consideration to the nature of the ordeal ahead of him. While waiting for the judge, he concentrated, hard, on ensuring that the lurking ice was firmly under control. He discovered, with some surprise, that losing his cool wasn't his biggest area of concern; he was more anxious about his ability to follow Ron's guidelines if cross-examination should take him into dangerous waters.

As he had done previously, he told his story in response to Dave's careful questions as simply and concisely as possible, somewhat distressed by his inability to become hardened to the telling. Describing the last portion of his life in hell, as he saw it, was still painful, and having to occasionally glance at the jury instead of fixing a blank stare on Dave's chin, as he had done before, only made it worse. He almost lost his tenuous self-control after spotting the look of sick pity in the blonde's eyes at one point, and afterwards tried desperately not to let his gaze linger for more than a moment.

Dave finished the initial questioning and requested a moment to confer with his client. Steve's hands, clasped on his lap, taut knuckles white, betrayed his tension, and the muscles of his face once more indicated the strain. "I'm going to ask for a break," Dave advised him, but Steve shook his head.

"No," he said roughly. "I want to get it over with."

Dave's eyebrows rose. "Sure you can handle it?"

Steve flicked him a glance, ice swimming in the blue depths. "Yes," he said shortly. "I'll be all right."

Dave shrugged. "Okay; but let me know immediately if anything changes." He stepped back. "No further questions, your Honor."

Edding rose and strolled closer to where Steve sat. "So you fell and broke your arm, Lieutenant?"

Dave leapt to his feet, objecting, and the judge agreed. "Mr. Edding. Remember what I said earlier."

But the damage was done. Steve had looked up, startled, at the question, and couldn't avoid seeing the gigantic man now standing against the wall at the back of the room, a powerfully unwelcome reminder of his own vulnerability as well as that of his family and friends. The nausea from the night before nosed its way into his consciousness, and the shattered bones in his arm ached in sympathy.

A voice rapped smartly at his awareness. "Lt. Sloan? Are you all right?"

He blinked, lifting a shaky hand to scrub it over his face, and realized belatedly that he had the undivided attention of everyone in the room. "I'm sorry; I --" The color had drained from his face, and the room was starting to spin. He tried to fight it, but the effort of trying to focus his eyes only aggravated the dizziness.

Judge Wharton motioned to the bailiff. "Get him into chambers now." She directed an intent look at the courtroom. "Mr. Harbrook, Mr. Edding, you too. And --" Her gaze narrowed to see Mark and Jesse already on their feet. "Gentlemen, I believe Lt. Sloan needs medical attention."

Steve found himself sitting in the same chair as before, this time bent forward, head between his knees. Jesse had taken his pulse and put a pressure cuff on his arm. "Hang on, buddy," he said quickly, "we'll get you stabilized in a minute."

Steve stirred. "Jess, I don't feel very well." His eyes fell on his surroundings, and anxiety slid into them. "What happened, Jesse? How'd I get in here?"

Jesse pushed him gently back against the chair cushion as he tried to surge upwards. "Whoa. Getting up right now would definitely be a bad idea."

Steve seemed totally oblivious to the presence of the others in the room. "No, Jess. I need to get out of here." He was starting to shake.

Judge Wharton gave Dave a sharp look, then leaned over. "Lt. Sloan?" Amazingly, her voice had softened, acquiring an almost maternal timbre, and Dave started to breathe again. She put a gentle hand on Steve's arm; he jumped slightly, but otherwise didn't object. "I'm going to call a recess. I want you to stay right here where you are until you feel better, then we'll resume." Her eyes snapped to the waiting men. "Anyone have any problems with that?"

No one did. "Good." Now Jesse received the force of her regard. "Dr. Travis. Do your job." And she moved on to Mark, who wasn't sure how he wanted to react to the strength of her personality. "Dr. Sloan? I'm going to Judge Curtis' chambers for a cup of coffee. I'd appreciate it if you and Messrs. Harbrook and Edding would join me." It wasn't a question; fascinated, he nodded and followed her down the hall.

After dumping a low-dose painkiller, an anti-nausea agent and a few bottles of juice down his best friend, Jesse pronounced him well enough to get something more solid into him, and actually succeeded in persuading Steve to eat a little. Although he wasn't particularly hungry, the inner battle Steve had fought to retain his composure after sighting Flores had sapped his stamina, and he didn't have enough energy to spare any just for the sake of annoying the young doctor. Reluctantly, he cooperated, finally feeling human enough to venture back into the courtroom, where he tried hard not to look at the huge bearded figure in the back any more than necessary.

Edding knew he was at a disadvantage; anyone with half an eye could see that the jury was leaning in Steve's favor. He tried hard anyway, poking and prying anywhere he could perceive any kind of opening in Steve's defenses, no matter how minute, with periodic success and more frequent failure. Amazingly, however, being an unsubtle man, he missed the most potentially damaging factor at all, never seeing the gradual but inexorable chill in the eyes of his intended victim, the stillness which had slowly closed over Steve's face and body, the clenched left fist.

Which Steve ached to smash into the little rat's narrow face. He was tired, so tired, of the endless rehashing of his ordeal. And Edding kept circling dangerously closely to areas of questioning where he had promised Ron he wouldn't go, or, worse yet, places he didn't dare travel for fear of unleashing Wyler's wrath on those he loved. Finally, though, Edding ran out of steam, frustrated by his inability to shake Steve's story more than slightly. "Nothing further," he growled, glaring at the exhausted witness.

Dave stood up. "Rebut, your Honor. Just a couple of questions." He walked up to the witness stand. "I know this has been difficult, Lieutenant. I just want you to answer a few more questions as best you can."

The weary eyes focused on him slowly. Steve looked like he'd run to hell and back again. "All right," he said tiredly.

"Lt. Sloan, were you acting in self-defense when you allegedly attacked Dr. Morgan?"

The words hurt, but he forced them out anyway. "Yes. I was afraid for my safety, for my life, of what the next injection would contain."

Dave waited a beat, then asked, "And did you assault Rachel Pauling?"

"No, I did not," Steve replied as firmly as he could, considering the sickness in his stomach at the thought. "She was my only link to sanity. I could never have hurt her, unwittingly or deliberately."

Dave gave him a you're-going-to-be-fine smile. "Thank you. No further questions."

Judge Wharton leaned forward. "Lieutenant? You may step down."

Steve took a long, deep breath, then another, forcing cramped muscles to loosen sufficiently to allow him to move. Somehow, he succeeded in negotiating the miles from the witness stand to the defense table, where he quickly sank into his chair after discovering his legs still didn't work quite properly.

Dave leaned in close. "Relax, Steve. You were great, far better than I could have hoped."

"Wish I could say the same," Steve muttered. "I'd rather have gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson." He shifted, trying to get more comfortable, aware of renewed distress in his injured arm.

Dave threw him a sympathetic look. "Hang in there. We've still got closing to go; and I need you to watch the jury during both arguments."

Which was not as easy as Dave made it sound. Even allowing for the predictability of the prosecution's summing up, Edding's overwrought attempt to paint him as a half-crazed addict bent on revenge was extremely distasteful, even as Steve recognized the germ of truth buried in the D.A.'s excessive hyperbole, which made him cringe.

He wasn't much more comfortable during Dave's closing. He was thoroughly sick of analyzing and re-analyzing his motivation during those last days at the clinic. But he followed his attorney's instructions, and paid attention to the jury's reactions, giving Dave a report of his observations while they waited for the jury to deliberate. The general consensus of the defense team was that the blonde was likely to be sympathetic, and several jurors in the back row looked promising.

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping that would encourage the persistent headache he had been fighting all day to disappear. It wasn't impressed, and he sighed, frustrated. "So how long do you think they'll make us wait until they put me out of my misery?" he finally wanted to know.

Dave gave him a sharp look. "Don't cave on me now, Steve, we're almost through." He didn't miss the twitching fingers, though, and added, "Too soon isn't always a good thing. And, remember, even if the charge concerning Rachel is a slam dunk, coming to a decision on the other may not be. Even allowing for extenuating circumstances, there still isn't any question that you ambushed Morgan." He looked at his watch and considered. "I figure at least a couple of hours."

Steve flung himself out of his chair impatiently, starting to cruise around the room. His father, who had been mostly quiet during the previous discussion, looked up from his notes. "Steve, Dave's right. You've done everything you can do at this point."

His son swung around, not quite violently but coming close. "Is that why I feel so damnably helpless, then?" he demanded hotly. "That's my life being chewed over in that room -- what the hell do those people know or understand about me?" The rage which he had thrust aside or stamped down for so long sensed its opportunity and made a major bid for freedom; Steve was just tired enough, sufficiently worn, that he found himself unable to care about the pending conflagration. Too late, Mark saw the blue eyes shift to stormy grey, as his son's fury flung itself outward, battering the hapless listeners.

"--Those people have no possible idea what I faced, what still crawls through my dreams, oozing poison until I don't think I can stand it anymore, that I can't escape --" he stormed, scorning their efforts to calm him down. It wasn't until the door opened as Cheryl came through, to be greeted by the latest verbal onslaught, that Steve saw her instinctive recoil and came to himself, more from shock at Cheryl's reaction than anything else. He stared at her, eyes wide, trying to find the right words, horrified that he was responsible for the sick apprehension he could see in her eyes.

"Cheryl," he croaked more or less unintelligibly. He licked dry lips, cleared his sandy throat, and tried again. "Cheryl. I'm sorry. That wasn't directed -- it had nothing to do with you." He was trembling; the cold fury took note of his momentary weakness and tried once more to push its way outward. He was prepared for it this time, however, and shoved it downward with an effort. "I -- I don't know what to say. I'm sorry." He glanced at his father and his lawyer, his eyes still wild. "Dad -- Dave -- I'm sorry."

His knees suddenly advised him to sit down before they gave out; he sagged into the nearest chair and sank his head into his hands. Mark started to move towards him, but Cheryl got there first. Steve felt the gentle pressure of her fingers on his shoulder. "Hey, partner," she said tentatively. He stirred slightly, but didn't respond; with more confidence, she told him, "It's all right, Steve. I understand. You don't have to apologize to me."

He reached for her hand with his good one. "Yes, I do. You're my partner." They were motionless for a moment, then she touched his cheek gently. "It's all right, Steve," she repeated. "Everything's going to turn out okay."

Steve glanced around at the concerned faces of the others. "I apologize. I shouldn't have let that get the better of me." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'm all right now."

Dave's eyes were sympathetic. "Nothing to forgive, Steve. I'm surprised it took you this long to blow."

Now Mark did get up, and placed his hands on his son's rigid shoulders. "My feelings exactly." He kneaded the strained muscles until Steve started to relax, slowly but steadily. "Just please keep one thing in mind, son," he added.

Steve had started to let his mind wander off as the tension in his body eased. "Mmmm?"

"Talk to me first next time, okay? It might be easier to defuse the storm before it builds up too much steam."

Steve moved restlessly. "It's not always easy to see it coming -- but I'll try, Dad."

Further exploration of the subject halted as Ron came in. He shook his head in response to the looks of inquiry. "Nothing yet. The jury's still out." He slid onto a chair and stuck his hand out to Steve. "You did great. I couldn't have asked for a better witness."

Steve started to make a wisecrack about Ron's low expectations when, unbidden, a vision of the mountainous Flores smiling hopefully at him from the back of the courtroom crept into his mind's eye. "Yeah, right," he contented himself with saying, unable to repress the cold shiver which skittered up his neck. He still hadn't worked out any effective plan for dealing with that particular threat.

Ron gave him a sharp look, but didn't follow up on it, instinctively recognizing the subject was better left for another time. He started to speak, but was cut off as the rest of the crew wandered in, with the exception of Rachel, who was driving her wheelchair. She parked next to Steve and gave him her wondrous smile.

He looked around at the faces smiling at him and felt his throat close up. "You know," he managed finally, somehow grimly hanging on to whatever vestiges of his self-control remained, "I really do appreciate how lucky I am to have all of you." It was getting harder to cram the words past the lump in his throat. "I just hope I can live up to your faith in me." He was trembling again, and paused to try to stop the shaking.

His father simply smiled at him, his face full of pride. "You do, son. You always have."

There was a silence, which Dave finally broke as diplomatically as possible, advising that he was going to check on the status of the jury deliberations. He was back within minutes. "Steve? They're ready."


	14. Coming Home

Steve's stomach was trying to squeeze itself up through his chest after tying itself in a series of excessively complicated knots. His heart had fled before the advancing organ and deposited itself firmly in his mouth. His palms were soaked, and his head was pounding. A stray corner of his mind informed him that he truly needed to have a long, hard talk with his excessively independent body parts as soon as a practical opportunity arose. In the meantime, his shaky nerves continued to wreak havoc on his obstreperous insides. He watched tensely as the bailiff collected the ominous piece of paper from the jury foreperson and delivered it to the judge, and wondered idly at the significance of such a frail object where a man's life was concerned.

Judge Wharton accepted the verdict form, unfolded it, and read it. Her grey-blue gaze flickered up briefly to alight on the handsome man standing before her, his face deliberately expressionless. She handed the paper back to the bailiff, who returned it to its originator, a pleasant-looking older woman. The judge glanced at Steve again, then fastened her eyes on the jury.

"Madam foreperson, have you reached a verdict?"

The woman nodded. "We have, your Honor."

Steve listened to the traditional phrases with an increasing sense of unreality. He wasn't sure if he wanted to hear the next ones roll out into the courtroom.

They did anyway. "Would you read your verdict, please?" the judge requested.

Now his stomach joined his heart, and his crowded throat was the only part of his body he could feel; everything else was numb. The foreperson flashed him a sympathetic look, but he was desperately focusing on the table in front of him and missed it.

"On the charges of attempted murder, assault and battery on Rachel Pauling, we find the defendant -- not guilty."

He heard and absorbed the words, but they had more or less expected this after Rachel's testimony. He didn't dare yet breathe.

"On the charges of attempted murder, aggravated assault and attempted kidnapping with regard to Dr. Frank Morgan, we find the defendant -- not guilty."

His gallivanting organs flew out of his body altogether. He had no awareness of who, where or when he was, just a sense that he was falling down an endless stairway. Turning to congratulate his client, Dave saw Steve's eyes dilate, then lose focus, and grabbed him just as the other man's knees buckled. He eased Steve back into his chair. "Steve? Steve, can you hear me?"

He could, but from far away, along with Judge Wharton's voice dismissing the charges and thanking the jury members for their time and service. With a strange sense of detachment, Steve identified his father's glad smile, and felt himself drift farther off by the second.

A cool hand burrowed into his, and the floor suddenly felt solid under his feet again. Rachel's radiant face slowly swam into focus, as he found himself belonging to his body once more. He smiled down at her, unable to speak; he settled for lifting her hand to his lips. Then a hand fell on his shoulder; he turned to meet Mark's huge grin, and enveloped his father in a fierce, if one-armed, hug. "Thanks for believing in me, Dad," he muttered thickly.

"Of course I believed in you," his father replied. "You're my son."

There was the requisite milling about while Steve collected hugs, handshakes and congratulations. If he and Cheryl embraced a little longer than the others, it went unnoticed for the most part, although Rachel caught a glimpse of something in Cheryl's eyes which gave her pause. Shortly afterwards, she snagged Steve's attention, laying her hand on his arm. He smiled down at her, and she, like the other women in his life lately, was stunned by the difference. She experienced a moment's panic; how could she possibly expect this incredibly attractive man with the irresistible smile to restrict his interest to her while she marked time in surgery and recovery, not to mention while she attempted to resolve her own ambivalent feelings.

"Steve, dear, I need to be getting back."

He moved away from the crowd a bit, pulling her with him. "Rachel --"

She beat him to the punch. "I hope you'll come visit. I'm going to be in therapy for at least a few more weeks, and of course the rest of the procedures --"

"Of course I'll come," he agreed. His tone grew more urgent. "Rachel -- about us --"

"Let's work on that as we go," she interposed quickly. He started to speak, but she shook her head. "I know what I'm doing, Steve. Our feelings for each other are entangled in trauma and misery. We both need to finish healing before we can consider making any kind of emotional commitment to another. But that doesn't mean I don't want us to get to know each other better in the meantime." She smiled at him quickly to soften the impact, even though she could discern a trace of bleakness start to seep into his eyes. "I mean, I don't know much about your real life; I only just found out that you and Jesse own a barbecue joint together!" She wondered whether to mention Cheryl, and sought refuge in cowardice. Better to wait and find out whether her impression had any kind of grounding in reality rather than complicate things further.

It wasn't the full-blown smile of minutes earlier, but it was an honest attempt as he conceded the debate. "Okay, Rachel, you win. For now. But I'm giving you ample warning that I keep my promises."

The brightness in her eyes was sufficient reward. "I know." She reached up and drew him down to her, wisteria enveloping him as he tasted her mouth. "Soon?" she whispered, and he nodded, not trusting the words to march out intelligibly.

As he watched her leave, the hovering fatigue hit him like the proverbial brick wall. Mark caught a glimpse of his son's face and suggested getting underway before any more of the day escaped. Too tired to argue, Steve agreed; as usual, his father's instincts were accurate. Exhaustion set in within minutes of his settling into the passenger seat, and he fell asleep not long afterwards, not waking until they had less than an hour to go. They drove in comfortable silence for a few minutes, then Steve said, too casually, "I'm going to go up and see her when they schedule the next operation."

"I assumed you would," Mark commented.

Steve flicked a sideways glance at his father. "Problem, Dad?"

Mark shook his head. "No, son. She's pretty level-headed."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Steve asked, startled.

His father gave him a critical look. "She's right, you know. You both have a lot of healing to do."

Steve flushed. "I didn't think anyone could hear us."

Mark laughed. "Steve, I've been so tuned to your every breath practically since you were found that I could probably hear you thinking down on the beach while I was still in the house."

The red deepened on his neck. "You never said."

Mark snorted. "Lots of things I don't necessarily tell you. You wouldn't have reacted too well to that as it was, the shape you were in."

There was a suddenly uncomfortable silence, and he glanced over at his son, who was staring straight ahead, mouth set. "Steve -- don't misunderstand me. We understood what you were going through."

His son's jaw relaxed slightly, but not much, and he continued to stare at the oncoming road. "I'm truly sorry, Dad. You were the last person I wanted to hurt."

Mark was starting to wish he'd never raised the subject. He pulled to a stop by the roadside and turned to face his son. "Steve, I know this is going to be difficult for you until you resolve your own inner -- conflicts. But please keep this in mind: I understand. We all do. We love you anyway."

Steve's head was bent, skin still flushed. "And the other night?"

"The other night," Mark repeated blankly. "What about the other night?"

"You told me --" Steve couldn't say it, and took refuge in understatement. "You were angry."

Mark thought for a moment, then remembered his outburst. "Oh." Silence reigned heavily, then he scratched his chin and pointed out, as reasonably as he could, that Steve had been hovering at the brink of losing it altogether, and desperate measures had therefore been required. Not that he considered the behavior which had triggered his tirade acceptable, of course, but he was willing to cut his son a little slack.

Steve listened open-mouthed. "Sounds like a no-win situation if you ask me, Dad," he remarked, although a grin was trying to make an appearance.

Mark noted the tone, and the dimple, and caved. "All right. You got me. I did mean some of those things I said, but not the way I said them. And we do love you."

"I know, Dad," Steve said quietly. "I love you too."

A full moon was drifting low in the night sky by the time they reached Malibu. Shortly thereafter, Mark pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine with a sigh of relief. "I feel like I've been driving for years," he commented.

Still tired, Steve had been drowsing, but had roused as the car slowed; now he glanced out of the window and felt his throat tighten. He started to reach for the door handle, and stopped.

His father noticed his hesitation. "You all right, son?"

After a moment, Steve nodded. "I think so, Dad." He took a deep breath and opened the car door.

Mark watched in silence as Steve made his way down towards the beach, then followed after, to drop to the sand next to his son, sprawled against that one favorite sandy hummock. They sat in perfect, wordless communion until stiff ribs started to whine, and Steve shifted his position slightly to accommodate them.

"Funny, isn't it, Dad."

"What's that, son?" Mark asked.

Steve craned his neck, glancing upward, then returned his gaze to the midnight-colored water before him. "Do you ever wonder about the irony, Dad?"

His father grunted. "Which one?"

Steve made a face. "Good point." He watched idly as the moon's reflection in the surf shattered into a myriad of tiny sparkling jewels. "Nature, I guess. There's the sea -- relentless, impersonal, inevitable. It rules so much life, but seems to be relatively untouched by it. And the light of the moon and stars doesn't change -- it's constant, totally unaffected by what goes on in our lives." He paused. "My life came so close today, Dad. My whole future -- shrunk down to a couple of hours in a jury room. And, through it all, despite it all, the moon rises. The stars survive. And that magnificent ocean prevails." He picked up a bit of shell, glanced at it, and tossed it towards the water, where it plopped satisfyingly. "That's me compared to them." Another pause.

His father's eyes were serious in the moonlight. "You reached a watershed today, son. In a way, ironically, you've been given an opportunity that not everyone gets; a chance to recognize that you've arrived at a critical point in your life, to examine and analyze, to make decisions which are likely to have a significant impact on the road you travel from here." He grimaced. "Of course, it would have been nice if you could have done it with less --"

"Unpleasantness?" Steve asked wryly.

Mark winced. "Not the best choice of words, son."

"No." He was silent, gazing at the almost indistinguishable line of the horizon, midnight blue meeting blue-black velvet. Finally, he said, "I'm going to call Captain Newman tomorrow. Grovel for my job back."

"You know it'll be desk duty," Mark commented dryly, suppressing a shiver as a slightly cooler breeze drifted off the water.

Steve chuckled. "Yeah. But I'll have time for my arm to heal --" He paused, the laughter gleaming in his eyes disappearing as quickly. "-- And for me to think." He got to his feet slowly, stretching tired muscles, then offered his father a hand up.

After dusting himself off, Mark asked curiously, "Think about what?"

Steve glanced at his father briefly, then let his eyes roam back to focus on the dim horizon once more. "About making sure Morgan is convicted. And Wyler. About -- getting my anger under control." He dug absently in the sand with the toe of his shoe.

"What about the gir -- er, ladies?" Mark asked, with a trace of mischief.

Steve's neck went hot. "Dad -- I thought you said you heard Rachel and me."

Mark raised an eyebrow. "So I did."

He was tired, and not in the mood for guessing games. "Dad, what are you getting at?"

Mark sighed. Ordinarily, he would have waited for Steve to figure it out himself before making any kind of comment, but Steve wasn't thinking particularly clearly at the moment. "Son -- while you're doing your thinking, maybe you might want to give some thought to Cheryl as well."

"Cheryl?" Steve asked, startled. A stray memory of a brilliant smile and velvet lips scooted through his mind's eye and tickled it, and he felt the heat rise to his face. A good thing it was dark, he thought ironically; but, when he met his father's eyes, the expression in them made him wonder. He started to speak, and realized that his father would see through him as easily as a glass of water. He ran his good hand through his hair impatiently.

"Dad, I don't know. There's -- something -- there. But I don't know what. And Rachel --"

Mark shrugged. "You're the only one who can decide that. But what I meant earlier about Rachel -- well," he said as gently as possible, "I think she realizes that your feelings for her, and hers for you, may very well be largely based a patient-nurse relationship, and that's one reason she wants to be sure before she commits herself." He waited for some comment from his son, and, lacking one, continued. "There's the added complication that you might feel -- obligated to her for what she's gone through for you."

Steve looked away and muttered something.

"What?"

"I said, I know," Steve said reluctantly. "She told me that back in the hospital." He dug in the sand some more. "I understand that. But I'd really like to know if it is something more. She's -- she's special, Dad."

His father sighed. "I know, son." He glanced at the water, and at the house, its likely warmth beckoning.

Steve was still staring out at the ocean thoughtfully, the breeze ruffling his hair. "And Cheryl -- I guess I really do need to do some thinking." He glanced absently at his father, noticing the chilling of the wind for the first time. "You look cold, Dad. Want to go in?"

Mark stared at his son for a moment, considering an appropriate response, and discarded those which came to mind as excessively harsh given Steve's level of distraction. "Sure." He lagged behind slightly as they walked up to the house, noticing the sudden trembling of the hand as Steve reached to open the door, and put a calming hand on his shoulder. "It's good to have you back, son."

Steve sat in yet another Fresno courtroom two months later, waiting for yet another jury to render its verdict. He had been told by Randy and Dave, as well as the other lawyers involved in the class action against Wyler, that he could probably file a civil suit against Dr. Morgan, but he had postponed making any decision pending the outcome of the criminal case. As it was, a conviction would also serve not only to revoke Morgan's medical license in the state of California, but to make it extremely difficult for him to practice anywhere in the country, a consequence which had Steve's full endorsement. Although it had still been difficult for him to describe those three hellish months to outsiders, especially after catching a glimpse of the elusive Flores in this courtroom also, with the resulting unwelcome reminder of potential repercussions to the wrong kind of testimony, knowing that the doctor was facing a long jail term and the end of his medical career helped.

And Steve was slowly but definitely putting his life back together. He had recently concluded his penitential tour of duty behind his desk, Captain Newman having acted true to his promise and Mark's expectations. He had driven up to Fresno for Rachel's latest surgery a few weeks earlier; now she sat beside him, calm despite the tell-tale souvenirs from the procedure. So far, they were still tentatively making each other's acquaintance; if he sometimes chafed at the overly relaxed tempo of their dance, he had to acknowledge a certain relief at being able to allow his regard to develop more naturally, even though it meant that there was no pressing need to analyze his emotional state, as well as his feelings for Cheryl.

Which he definitely had. Once back at work, even though she was able to hit the streets while he was tied to the station, their professional relationship was clearly as strong and comfortable as ever. Yet he found himself reacting more often than not to the gleam in her eyes and brilliance of her smile when directed at him, and he realized that his responses were probably more enthusiastic than the situation might have possibly have warranted. He couldn't help but hope that she experienced a similar emotional pull, if her reactions to his own smile were any indication. He wondered sometimes if Rachel had picked up on the potential attraction, but he was grateful for the latitude to work through it himself without any additional pressure.

He was also slowly learning how to handle the kernel of anger which steadfastly remained, seemingly disinclined to abandon him, although knowing that Morgan's comeuppance was imminent had alleviated a great deal of the lingering bitterness. It had taken some time, however, and he had finally asked his father for a referral, resulting in several sessions with a therapist, but, once he had accepted the probability that the rage was looking to become semi-permanent, he had started to come to terms with the occasional fury, and was developing the ability to control or focus it constructively.

Which had been a good thing, for he had held on to his temper during his last debriefing with Ron in preparation for Morgan's trial. Ron had somehow picked up on the slight, occasional hesitation in Steve's testimony during his own case, and, recognizing that the pauses were not necessarily caused by subjects forbidden by him, had been poking at Steve about them ever since, unaware that Steve's reticence had another cause entirely. Unwilling to share the threats delivered by Wyler's minions with the FBI, Steve had successfully deflected Ron's questions. He had hated himself for doing so, but he had kept his head, reminding himself that, once Wyler was safely under wraps, he would be able to lay those fears to rest.

The door opened, and the jury trooped back into the courtroom. Twelve ordinary people, Steve thought, making a decision which would have a decisive effect on a man's life. Actually, two men's lives; even with the recovery he had made, he realized that he needed badly to see Morgan pay for his actions. His fists clenched involuntarily; Rachel started at the sudden pressure on her hand. On his other side, his father glanced over at him with concern, reassuring himself that Steve was all right.

The same transfer of paper by the bailiff to the judge and back to the jury again, and Steve listened with growing relief as the foreperson read the crucial words, determining Frank Morgan, soon to be no longer M.D., guilty of all charges beyond the shadow of a doubt.

He had come full circle, Steve thought, looking appreciatively around at his father and his friends as they celebrated on the deck of the beach house, after a lengthy and lively discussion of Morgan's trial and the government's plans for Wyler once he was tracked down. He felt profoundly grateful to them all, and said so, repeatedly, until an amused Cheryl had challenged him to put his money where his mouth was and show his gratitude by volunteering to write all their reports for the next several months. Her suggestion had been met with characteristic repartee and laughter, not only from him but the others as well, mostly at his expense. He had laughed and taken it all in stride, not begrudging the opportunity to be thus badgered at all.

His father wandered over to stand beside him, watching the sun drift down to meet the varicolored Pacific. "How are you doing, son? Holding up all right?"

Steve smiled at him, a genuine all the way to the eyebrows smile. For the first time in months, his father noticed, his eyes were truly clear. "Fine, Dad. Even with Wyler still at large, I finally feel free, like myself again." He saw a shadow pass over his father's face as Mark blinked and then smoothed out his expression once more, and fervently hoped never to be the cause of such pain and care to his father again. He swallowed, forcing the lump in his throat downwards, and slung his arm around his father's shoulders, squeezing lightly. "I'm just fine, Dad."

Father and son stood wordlessly, watching the sea they both loved in perfect, silent understanding, savoring the harmony between them. More than six months after initially embarking on his quest for enlightenment, Steve Sloan had finally come home.


End file.
